The Operative
( Stratton - 3 )
Falconer, Duncan
In war-torn Iraq, Stratton’s closest friend is killed whilst on operation, leaving behind a grieving wife and child. When the widow moves to Los Angeles she is brutally murdered and her child placed in state custody. Stratton, rocked to his foundations by the killing, uncovers a FBI plot to hide the crime and sets off on a private operation of revenge that eventually pits him against one of the most powerful East European crime syndicates in America. Hunted by the CIA and FBI as well as a brutal army of Albanian mobsters and armed only with his wits and an extraordinary skill with explosives, Stratton relentlessly pursues his private war, a fight he suspects could be his last. This is another enjoyable Falconer weave of thrill and action wrapped in the rich authenticity that defined his previous novels that provides a roller-coaster ride across half the globe.
Also by Duncan Falconer:
The Hostage
The Hijack
The Protector
Undersea Prison
Mercenary
Traitor
Non-fiction
First Into Action
To Tristan and Barty
Author’s note
In a work of fiction it will be no surprise to anyone that none of the characters in this book are other than the product of my imagination. If there are any resemblances to any living persons, they are entirely accidental and unintended. Equally readers will appreciate that for obvious reasons I have deliberately disguised a number of technical details of the composition of the explosives.
1
Stratton climbed from a local taxi outside a row of detached homes just off the Wareham road in Poole, Dorset, paid the driver, and headed along a gravel track towards the front door of the largest house. His battered old leather jacket was draped over an arm in the crook of which he held a bottle of inexpensive wine. A large present splendidly finished off with a red-ribbon bow rested in the other. Stratton owned a car, an eight-year-old Jeep that he’d had for several years, but he had been away on an assignment for the past three months and when he’d tried to start it that morning for the first time since his return the engine wouldn’t turn over. He wasted little time with it, refusing to squander his first day home tinkering with his ride, so he called a mate in the camp’s motor transport department who said he would take a look at it the following day. Then Stratton spent the morning shopping for a new pair of trousers, a shirt and a pair of shoes, getting a trim for his tussled dark hair, and generally being self-indulgent.
Spending a day shopping in Bournemouth, or anywhere for that matter, was not normal for Stratton, and devoting that amount of time to his personal attire and appearance was downright unusual. This man could never be accused of hedonism by anyone who knew him: in fact, in higher circles, specifically among his bosses in the SBS and Military Intelligence, he was considered unkempt. That was not a complaint, of course, not from those he worked for directly. It was an unkempt world he operated in and Stratton could often be found in its darkest and most dingy parts.
Stratton could not say for sure why he had woken up that morning feeling entitled to a day of decad ence. But he assumed it had a lot to do with having spent the last phase of a boring operation holed up in a camouflaged observation position in a pile of large, unstable boulders on the side of a mountain overlooking the summit of a ski lift a few miles outside the town of Almaty, Kazakhstan. He’d been waiting for a caravan bringing a supply of heroin over the mountain range from Afghanistan.
Drug smuggling was not Stratton’s usual area of operation but it was true to say that anyone who worked in anti-terrorism ops was by default connected with the drug-smuggling business. Finally, after three weeks of eating American MREs (meals ready to eat), getting a hot drink only during daylight hours for tactical reasons and breathing air with a markedly reduced oxygen content due to the altitude, the caravan had finally arrived and Stratton had carried out his task – which was to do nothing more than film it. He was glad that the task had not gone on any longer and that he had made it back home, and on this day in particular. It was Josh Penton’s birthday, a six-year-old boy whom Stratton had known since the day the kid had been born, son to one of his oldest friends in the SBS – and Stratton’s godson.
There were a number of cars jammed along the usually quiet gravel drive and as Stratton approached the front door he could see several people in the large kitchen. As he raised the hand with the wine in it to push the front doorbell the door opened. Jack was standing in the hallway looking somewhat sombre and holding a bottle of beer, which he immediately thrust at Stratton.
‘You’re adrift,’ Jack said accusingly.
‘Car wouldn’t start,’ replied Stratton with equal gravity.
‘We don’t accept excuses in this business. Take the bottle and drink the contents.’
‘You’re a beer behind, laddy,’ a voice barked behind Jack. It was Smiv, a tall, red-headed Scotsman with a bull neck and a build to match.
Jack pushed the beer closer to Stratton, frowning. ‘Refusing will not help your case,’ he said.
‘It’s not even one o’clock,’ Stratton pleaded.
Jock and Smiv were joined by Bracken, a dark-haired hombre-moustachioed brute whom many called Turk because of his highly suspect ancestry, a heritage which he flatly denied. ‘How’s it going, Stratton?’ he asked.
‘He’s a beer behind,’ Smiv told Bracken.
‘That right?’ Bracken said as he put a bottle to his lips and took a swig. ‘Who does he think he is?’
Stratton rolled his eyes, took the bottle and put it to his lips.
‘You don’t get in this door until that’s emptied,’ Jack added.
Stratton sighed, tipped back his head, and slowly emptied the glass container, not as adept as most at divesting a bottle of its contents in one go. He handed it back to Jack who beamed as if all negative issues had been suddenly resolved.
‘Come inside,’ Jack said, stepping back to allow Stratton entry. As he closed the door he gave Stratton a bear-hug, then stepped back to look him over. ‘Everything in order? No bits missing?’
‘No. The most boring job I think I’ve ever done. I had piles from sitting on cold, damp rocks for a couple of weeks, but other -wise no complaints.’
‘Always take a packet of Anusols with you on ops,’ Smiv advised like an old sage.
‘Might as well shove ’em up your arse, all the good they do,’ Bracken chimed in as he took another swig from his bottle.
‘Sad thing is he’s serious,’ Smiv confided to the others.
‘Go say hello to Sally,’ Jack said, nodding towards the kitchen and taking Stratton’s wine. ‘And then go see Josh. He’s been going on at me all week about when you’re coming home and if you’ll be in time for his party.’
‘’E ’asn’t gotta beer again,’ Bracken noted and one was immediately held out to Stratton.
‘I haven’t had a drink in a month. I’ll be trashed on another of those.’
The other men remained unmoved by his plea, as did the bottle. Stratton took it, rolled his eyes again and went into the kitchen where several wives were helping to prepare food.
‘Stratton!’ Sally yelled on seeing him. She quickly put down the tray of sausages that she had just removed from the oven, tossed her gloves onto the kitchen counter and hurried over with outstretched arms. ‘Come ’ere, you handsome bastard,’ she said, a northern twang discernible even after more than a decade living in the south of the country. ‘We’ve missed yer.’
She gave him a bear-hug. Stratton wrapped his laden arms around her, and gave her a fat kiss on the lips.
‘Doesn’t greet me like that when I come home,’ Jack said, feigni
ng hurt.
‘’Im or ’er?’ Bracken asked.
‘Oh, shot op, Jack. ’E gets the same,’ she said to Stratton. ‘Except in lace underwear.’
‘Ooooh,’ the men cooed in chorus.
‘I’ll ’ave to try that,’ Bracken said.
‘She wears the lace underwear,’ Smiv explained.
‘Oh.’ Bracken nodded, understanding.
‘Let me take a look at you,’ Sally said, standing back. ‘All in one piece?’
‘We’ve been through that,’ Jack said, stepping forward and taking over. ‘Now get yourself down and see Josh before she starts checking for herself.’
Sally gave Jack a little smack on the arm. ‘Go on,’ she said to Stratton. ‘Get down to the garden. I’ll talk to you later. And take that rabble with yer.’
Stratton headed through the kitchen to a set of double doors that led out on to a balcony overlooking a large back garden surrounded by leylandii. A barbecue was smoking away in a corner where some two dozen adults stood chatting, drinks in their hands, and a dozen children. Stratton picked out Josh. The boy was wearing a set of oversized military- camouflage clothes and leading several of the children in an attack against an enemy position with his plastic M16 assault rifle.
Stratton made his way down a flight of steps to the bottom where a man turning chicken legs on the barbecue saw him. ‘Stratton,’ he called out.
‘Seaton,’ Stratton replied. ‘Long time no see.’
‘Fallujah,’ Seaton reminded him, his accent south-east-coast American. ‘What happened to you? You left right after.’
‘Our job was only to lift Maqari for you guys. Interrogations bore me,’ Stratton said. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Well,’ Seaton said, lowering his voice and looking to make sure that no one was within earshot. ‘The job you just came back off – you were working for us. Great footage, by the way. Sorry it wasn’t more exciting for you.’
‘That’s how it goes sometimes.’
‘I’ll make it up to you soon,’ Seaton said.
‘How soon?’
‘Pretty soon, I think.’ Seaton winked.
Stratton didn’t know Seaton very well. He was aware that the man was in CIA operations in the Middle East but was not a field operative like Stratton.
‘I have a present to deliver,’ Stratton said, holding up the gift.
‘We’ll catch up later.’
Stratton headed across the garden, wondering what kind of operation it would be that Seaton had hinted would be ‘pretty soon’. But his thoughts were quickly interrupted. Most of the men greeted him as he passed and when Josh saw him he stopped in mid-battle and sprinted over at full speed.
‘Stratton!’ he shouted as he dived into his god father’s arms. ‘When’d you get back?’
‘This morning.’
‘Where’d you go? Are you allowed to tell?’
‘Only you, Josh.’
Josh looked around at his mates who had come over to join them. ‘Sorry, guys. Stratton can only tell me.’
The others looked downhearted as Josh pulled Stratton away from them. Stratton crouched so that his and Josh’s heads were close together.
The other kids looked on jealously as Josh nodded while Stratton talked. Then the boy’s eyes lit up and he looked at Stratton in disbelief. ‘True?’ he asked. ‘Bloody ’ellfire,’ he exclaimed, a bit of his mother’s northern accent sneaking into his despite the fact that he spent only a few weeks of each year with his grand -parents in Manchester.
‘Promise not to tell anyone,’ Stratton asked.
‘On pain of death,’ Josh said with immense sincerity. Stratton gave him the present and stood up as Jack joined them.
‘Thanks, Stratton,’ Josh said as he crouched to open the gift, quickly surrounded by his mates.
‘What crap did you spin him this time?’ Jack said into Stratton’s ear.
‘I took over a battle from a dying Afghan warlord and led a thousand of his men on a cavalry charge against a band of rogue Taliban insurgents coming over the border from Pakistan.’
‘Christ. He probably thinks his dad’s a complete loser while his godfather goes around winning every war single-handed.’
‘Yup,’ Stratton agreed.
Josh stood up holding the contents of his package. In one hand he held a pakol, a traditional Afghani mujahedin hat, brown and shaped like a large pie, and in the other a Russian Army belt with a black buckle from the Second Armoured Division, a relic of Russia’s Afghan war.
‘What are they?’ Josh asked.
‘The hat’s from a certain Afghan warlord,’ he said, winking. ‘And the belt’s from a Russian soldier he killed in hand-to-hand combat.’
‘Wow!’ Josh exclaimed while his father rolled his eyes and shook his head.
‘Right. We’ve got a new game,’ Josh said, facing his troops with great seriousness. ‘I’m an Afghan warlord and you’re all my men. And we’re going to do a cavalry charge.’ Josh put the hat on, winked at Stratton and then ran away, followed by his obedient soldiers.
Jack sighed as he watched Josh race off. ‘If I told him you were his real dad he’d just shrug and say, “Okay, see ya, let’s go home, Stratton.” ’
‘Stratton?’ a voice called out from behind.
Stratton turned to see Bracken, Smiv and Smudge walking towards him. Smudge was a lanky SBS operative with an unusually large nose not unlike the keel of a yacht, and in his hand was a small green plastic briefcase.
‘I think I’ve got you this time,’ Smudge said.
‘Got me?’
‘Party trick,’ Smudge said, holding up the green briefcase. ‘I brought the fat.’
‘Here?’ Stratton exclaimed. ‘You must be joking.’
‘Joke I do not … Over here,’ Smudge said, heading across the garden.
‘No,’ Stratton said.
‘Just take a look,’ Smudge urged. ‘Come on – I’ve got some money to win back.’
‘Go on, Stratton,’ Bracken said. ‘At least take a look. It’s a good one.’
Stratton looked at Jack who simply shrugged, evidently in on whatever was going on.
Stratton reluctantly followed the group to the far corner of the garden where a small table stood all on its own. In the centre was a small tower of glass made of an empty champagne bottle and a slender champagne flute balanced upright on top of it.
They all stared at it in silence, the others glancing between Stratton and the table as if he knew what this was all about.
‘I don’t get it,’ Stratton finally said.
‘You’ve got to get the glass inside the bottle,’ Smudge revealed.
‘What?’ Stratton asked, unsure whether he had heard correctly.
‘The champagne glass inside the bottle … May I remind you that you were the one who said that the use of explosives was not brutality but a delicate science and that with the right formula and chemistry anything could be achieved.’
‘I never said that.’
‘Something like that,’ Smudge insisted.
‘The universe was started with a big bang,’ Bracken commented. The others ignored him.
‘All you have to do is get the glass into the bottle,’ Smudge repeated. ‘And there has to be a recognisable amount of the bottle left.’
‘The glass inside the bottle,’ Stratton said, unable to stop himself from calculating a solution.
‘One hit only,’ Smudge added, sensing that Stratton might already have a plan.
Stratton looked around at the garden, estimating the dangers. But Smudge was ahead of him.
‘Everyone goes into the house,’ Smudge said. ‘Won’t be more than like a large banger going off.’
Stratton looked at Jack who shrugged his indifference. Then he peered closely at the bottle and flute again. ‘The glass inside the bottle,’ he said.
‘’E ’as a plan, methinks,’ Bracken said, grinning, the comment denting Smudge’s confidence.
‘You can’t
touch any of the glass other than with fat,’ Smudge said. ‘One explosion, and the flute has to end up inside the bottle … You owe me a chance to get my money back.’
‘For what?’ Stratton asked.
‘That Sunni cleric in Mosul – what was ’is name?’
‘Mohamed Sah,’ Jack offered.
‘That’s ’im. You had to blow his car off the street and onto the roof of his house.’
‘He did that,’ Jack said.
‘Yeah, but I should’ve won on a technicality,’ Smudge argued. ‘The guy was supposed to have been in it at the time.’
‘You’re a sore loser, Smudge,’ Smiv chimed in.
‘I accepted it, didn’t I? I’m moving on. Stratton was the one who said he could do anything with explosives and I’m offering him another chance to prove it. What do you say? Double the Mosul bet? Two hundred quid says you can’t do it.’
Stratton was more interested in the challenge than the money.
‘I’ll match Smudge’s two ’undred,’ Bracken said.
‘I’ll ’ave some of that,’ added Smiv. ‘I can’t see how he can do that.’
‘You in, Jack?’ Smudge asked.
‘If Stratton says it can be done,’ Jack said.
They all looked at Stratton who was still studying the problem.
‘What do you think?’ Smudge asked him.
‘The question is not if, but how,’ Stratton answered.
‘No,’ Smudge said, challenging him. ‘The question is, my friend, can you do it?’
They watched Stratton study the table, the glass, the air above, and even the surrounding area. Finally he stood back, put his hands on his hips, exhaled deeply and nodded to himself.
‘Is that a yes?’ Smudge asked.
‘Yes,’ Stratton finally said.
Smudge immediately looked concerned. He knew that Stratton was a master when it came to explosives but he was also canny and Smudge did not trust him. ‘One bang only,’ he reiterated.
Stratton nodded.
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