The Operative s-3

by Falconer, Duncan

  Stratton saw a group of Latino kids sitting on the front steps of a house and crossed the road towards them. They stopped talking as they watched him approach and remained seated as he stopped in front of them.

  ‘You lookin’ for drugs, man?’ one of them asked. He couldn’t have been more than fourteen years old.

  ‘No – I’m looking for something else,’ Stratton said, deciding that the drug pusher was not the leader.

  ‘What would that be, man?’ another boy asked, getting to his feet and circling behind Stratton, an expression of contempt on his face that looked more forced than natural. The others got to their feet to look at Stratton in a similar fashion.

  Stratton didn’t sense that the move was entirely hostile. He reckoned that they were simply fluffing their feathers. He concentrated on the boy, probably the leader, who was circling him, and when the youngster eventually stopped in front of him Stratton looked him straight in the eyes. There was not a great deal of intelligence behind them, the lids drooping halfway across the eyeballs, but there was a maturity beyond the boy’s years in his posture and also confidence.

  Stratton went for the direct approach. ‘A woman was killed here two days ago,’ he said.

  ‘You a cop?’ the boy asked, dryly.

  ‘No. I’m not American so I couldn’t be a cop. She was my sister.’

  ‘That was your sister?’ one of the other boys asked. ‘Man, she took a bitchen’.’

  The other boys agreed, some of them grinning.

  ‘You see it?’ Stratton asked the boy who appeared to be the youngest. His age was probably in single digits.

  ‘Never said I saw nothin’,’ the boy said, already developing his street wisdom.

  One of the others uttered some Latino phrase and the whole group laughed.

  Stratton studied them for a moment and had a rethink. Dealing with near-morons required a certain approach. ‘I’ll give you fifty dollars if you show me where it happened,’ Stratton said.

  ‘Fifty dollars?’ the leader asked, appearing unimpressed. But Stratton knew that he was undoubtedly interested.

  ‘Just to show me where,’ Stratton said, reaching into his pocket and plucking out a note. It was a hundred-dollar bill.

  ‘We ain’t got no change, mister,’ one of them laughed.

  ‘Then I’ll give you a hundred,’ Stratton said. ‘If you tell me more than just where it happened.’

  The leader looked around the street, instinctively cautious. Then his slow eyes came back to focus on Stratton’s face and he blinked. ‘Maybe we’ll just beat you and take your money,’ he said.

  ‘You can try,’ Stratton said, rolling up the bill into a ball. ‘But I’ll eat it before you can get it. Or you can just give me what I want and you can have it without any trouble.’

  The leader looked into Stratton’s eyes and saw no trace of fear and, if anything, amusement. ‘We can’t tell you nothin’. That’s the way it’s gotta be, pinchi,’ he said, unsure about this gringo.

  ‘So, you can show me where it happened?’ Stratton asked.

  ‘Down there.’ The boy indicated with his chin.

  ‘Show me,’ Stratton said.

  The leader did another check around, then looked at the smallest kid in the group. ‘Show him. And be cool.’

  ‘Why do I gotta take him?’

  ‘’Cause I said. Walk down there in front of him, then pick up the money and come back here.’

  The kid reluctantly obeyed his master, walked down the steps and stopped in front of Stratton, his head no higher than Stratton’s waist. ‘Come on,’ he said and set off.

  Stratton followed the kid for a block and a half until the boy broke into a short run, stopped, made a point of turning on the spot and walked back towards Stratton. Stratton opened the hand with the wadded-up note in it. The kid took it as he passed and jogged back up the street towards his pack. The leader checked the note and then they all walked away around a corner.

  Stratton looked down at his feet. They were surrounded by bits of car-window glass and he imagined Sally lying on the car’s bonnet, dead, with Josh watching her. The broken glass was spread over the street as if her vehicle had been in the centre of the road and not parked against the kerb. Whatever had happened had taken place while she was in transit. He doubted that she would have stopped in a place like this for anything less than a breakdown.

  He scanned the sidewalks and houses on either side but the place was deserted, as if everyone knew his purpose and wanted nothing to do with him. Then his gaze fell on a corner shop further up the street where an oriental man was standing in the doorway, looking directly at him. As soon as their stares made contact the man went inside. Stratton wanted to talk to someone and since banging on doors didn’t seem like a good idea round here he decided to start with the only living person in sight.

  Stratton stepped onto the sidewalk and headed for the shop that was very much in keeping with its surroundings: grubby, grille-covered windows and in desperate need of a paint job.

  He paused in the doorway to look inside. Every bit of space was packed with product apart from a narrow path from the entrance that led around an island of shelving in the centre. The counter was near the front door and two convex mirrors in the opposite corners covered the blind spots at the back of the store. The oriental man was stacking cigarette packets onto shelves behind the counter while a fat white woman at the far end sorted through some vegetable racks.

  Stratton stopped in front of the counter and took a packet of gum from a box, all the while staring at the shopkeeper to catch his eye. But the man appeared determined not to look at him.

  ‘How much is the gum?’ Stratton asked.

  ‘Fifty cents,’ the shopkeeper replied in a thick Korean accent.

  Stratton held out a dollar bill and as the man reached for it Stratton drew it back a little. The man’s eyes flashed at Stratton and held his unblinking gaze for a moment, a hint of anger in them. Then he stretched for the bill and took it.

  ‘A woman was killed two days ago in front of your shop,’ Stratton said in a low voice so that the woman in the back could not hear.

  The man did not reply, avoiding Stratton’s stare again, and put the fifty cents change on the counter.

  The overweight woman shuffled from the back of the shop, stopped beside Stratton and plonked a bag of vegetables down on the counter. ‘This produce is crap,’ she announced, a fearsome look on her face.

  ‘That why they half-price,’ the shopkeeper replied dryly, as if the complaint was a normal occurrence. ‘Two dollar, please.’

  ‘If they’re half-price then they’re twice the fucking price they are at the market.’

  ‘This isn’t the market.’

  ‘Fucking Chinks,’ she said to Stratton as she tossed two dollar bills on the counter, grabbed her bag, and walked out of the store, muttering to herself.

  The shopkeeper walked around the counter and looked out of his door to watch the woman walk away and see if there was anyone about. When he turned back to face Stratton he was glaring angrily. ‘Why you people come here again? I tell you everything last night.’

  The man was obviously confusing Stratton with someone else and for the time being Stratton wasn’t about to let him think otherwise. ‘Are you sure you didn’t miss anything?’ he asked, grabbing at the first thing he could think of that might induce the man to talk.

  ‘Go ask your friends,’ the shopkeeper spat, glancing out the door again. ‘I tell them all I know!’

  He was not threatening Stratton but he was clearly nervous about something as he went back behind his counter to continue stacking the shelves.

  ‘I need to double-check,’ Stratton said, wondering who the man could be referring to.

  ‘You promise you leave me alone when I tell you. I dead if they know I talk to you. I told you I not go to court or go downtown with you. I tell you the man who kill the woman and now you come for more. What more you need? I not talk to you any more. Fu
cking FBI. Get out of my shop!’ He paused to glare at Stratton long enough to reinforce his demand. Then he turned his back on him.

  The Korean man was determined to end the conversation, out of fear or anger. Whichever it was, Stratton was up against a wall: short of physical violence there was no other way through as far as he could see at that moment. He picked up the fifty cents, deposited the coins in a children’s-charity box and walked out of the store.

  Contemplating the shopkeeper’s revelation, Stratton walked back to the spot where Sally had been killed. The FBI had apparently interviewed the man the night before whereupon he had revealed the name of a suspect. Yet this morning Sergeant Draper had said he knew nothing. The police had responded to the incident within a few hours and the FBI had interviewed the shopkeeper a day later. The question was why the FBI had become involved in what looked like a local police matter. It might explain why Draper knew nothing or wouldn’t tell what he did know.

  Stratton’s first thought was that he should go to the FBI, not that he expected any more joy from them than he’d had from the police – unless, of course, there was someone he could get help from. He walked down the road, racking his brains for anyone he knew or had known in the past who might be useful. By the time he arrived back on the bustling Main Street a name had struck him. There was one person who might be able to help although Stratton did not know him well enough to assume that he would. However, he was, in a very tangential way, connected with this and perhaps a favour could be coerced from him. It was worth a try.

  Stratton took out his address book, flicked through the pages, found the number and tapped it into his phone. As soon as it started to ring he turned it off, realising the lack of wisdom in using his own mobile to make this particular call.

  He saw a payphone on the other side of the street and darted through a gap in the traffic. He dug into his pocket to pull out the small pile of coins he had amassed, picked up the receiver, put all the silver into the slot and dialled the number.

  A moment later the phone at the other end was answered by a voice he recognised.

  ‘Seaton?’ Stratton asked.

  ‘Who is this?’

  ‘Stratton.’

  Seaton was in the living room of his comfortable suburban home, an open file on his lap. He was seated on a leather recliner. The room, like the rest of the house, was carefully furnished with reproduction veneer items and was glowing with middle-class ostentation. Unmistakably the creation of a self-obsessed wife it was full of framed family photographs, mainly of two smiling boys, the older of whom was in his very early teens. There were also plaques from various military intelligence outfits and special forces, not all of them American. One was from the SBS and it hung beside another from Navy SEAL Team 6.

  ‘Stratton? Hey, good to hear from you. How you doing?’

  ‘Fine. Where are you right now?’ Stratton asked – he’d called Seaton’s mobile phone.

  ‘I’m at home,’ Seaton said, having redirected his mobile to his home number.

  ‘Can you talk?’

  ‘Sure. Hey, I’m glad you called,’ Seaton said, sitting up and putting down his file. ‘I’m sorry I never made Jack’s funeral. I was ordered straight home after the op to do some follow-up. I tried to call Sally a couple days ago but I couldn’t get hold of her.’

  Stratton paused to consider the best way of breaking the bad news that would also prompt a favourable reaction to a request for help. ‘I understand. Your card was much appreciated,’ he lied.

  ‘I still should’ve been there, but, well, I suppose I don’t need to explain to you … So, what can I do for you?’ Seaton asked.

  ‘I need a favour.’

  ‘Shoot,’ Seaton said, getting to his feet. He went over to his desk where a read-out on a small digital screen displayed the number of the phone Stratton was calling from and beneath it the location: Venice Beach, California.

  ‘I’m in California.’

  ‘California?’ Seaton said, feigning surprise. ‘Getting some sun and a taste of those famous babes, I hope.’

  Stratton decided to get to the point. ‘Sally was killed a couple of days ago,’ he said.

  ‘What?’ Seaton said, dumbfounded. ‘Jack’s Sally?’

  ‘That’s why I’m calling.’

  ‘I can’t believe what I’m hearing … How’d she die, for God’s sake?’

  ‘She was murdered.’

  ‘Murdered? Where?’

  ‘Here – in Los Angeles.’

  Seaton pushed his hands through his short, mousy hair as he walked to his patio windows. The view beyond the wooden fence surrounding his groomed garden was of a dense collection of tall, deciduous trees belonging to Dranesville District Park, a small, pretty patch of green that hugged the south bank of the Potomac river in Maryland. ‘I can’t believe it,’ Seaton said. ‘What was she doing in LA?’

  ‘Getting away. Josh was with her. He’s okay. I’m working on how I can get him back to the UK.’

  ‘What do you need me to do?’ Seaton asked, sounding genu -inely concerned.

  Stratton was still reluctant to ask directly, mainly because he didn’t know Seaton that well. It wasn’t a small thing and Stratton had not made up his mind whether Seaton was a team player, one of the guys, or a career man – no one got far up the promotional ladder by being one of the guys. Career-minded people didn’t stick their necks out without some self-interested reason.

  ‘How’d it happen?’ Seaton asked.

  ‘I don’t know exactly. She rented a car at the airport and somehow ended up in the backstreets of Venice. I’m guessing that she was looking for a hotel for the night. The police say she was attacked by a gang but they don’t know who. Thing is, the FBI does.’

  ‘I don’t understand. Why’s the FBI involved?’

  ‘Beats me. When I got no joy from the cops I went down to the crime scene and found out that the Feds have got hold of a name.’

  ‘I hear what you’re saying,’ Seaton said. ‘You want me to see if I can help you get custody of Josh?’

  ‘No,’ Stratton said, slightly irritated that Seaton appeared to have missed the point. ‘I want to know that whoever did this to Sally is going to pay.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t they?’ Seaton asked, not getting Stratton’s drift.

  ‘I want to know why the Feds have taken over the case and are withholding the name of the killer from the cops. It bothers me.’

  Seaton considered the request for a moment. Stratton could almost hear him thinking on the end of the line. He kept quiet in the hope that Seaton was heading in the right direction.

  ‘I might be able to find out something. I’m heading into the office in an hour. I’ll see what I can do.’

  A computer voice broke into the conversation: ‘You have thirty seconds remaining for this call.’

  ‘You still there, Stratton?’

  ‘I don’t have any more change,’ Stratton said. ‘I’ll call you later.’

  ‘Hey – why don’t you come over?’ Seaton suggested. ‘Stay a couple days. You know some of the guys here. Where you staying?’

  ‘Santa Monica.’

  ‘Getting Josh outta there isn’t gonna be an overnight job. You can hop on a plane. Only take a few hours. We can talk about it when you get here.’

  Stratton’s immediate thought was to stay close to Josh. But he knew that he had a better chance of getting help from Seaton if he spent some time with him. ‘Sounds like a good idea,’ he said.

  ‘Great. It’ll be good to see you. We’ll work this out. Let me know your flight soon as you can and I’ll pick you up.’

  ‘Will do,’ Stratton said as the phone automatically disconnected.

  Seaton lowered the phone and pondered the situ ation. He had been a CIA agent for a couple of years longer than Stratton had been in special forces and his natural cunning and wit had been honed by those years in the business. He didn’t know Stratton very well but he had spent enough time with the SBS to know that th
e man was one of their top go-to operatives and had also made the Secret Intelligence Services’ full-time roster, which was unusual for anyone still in SF. Seaton reasoned that it was perfectly natural for someone to want to know who had killed a close friend of theirs. But when that someone was a man like Stratton the picture had the potential to get darker. Seaton was aware that he was probably being overly suspicious, a natural enough response in his line of work, but there was still always a need to be cautious. For instance, he did not ignore the fact that Stratton had called from a payphone.

  Seaton decided that he would help Stratton but only in a way that would keep his own profile way out of any snooping spotlight.

  Stratton carried on down Main Street towards his hotel, wondering if Seaton would change his mind once he had thought it through – not that Stratton reckoned he had asked for anything too unreasonable. Snooping around the FBI was only wrong because the FBI wouldn’t like it, but there had to be some perks to the business of clandestine ops and that was what the old-boy network was for. Stratton dearly wanted to know who was responsible for Sally’s death, but more importantly he wanted to ensure that they were going to pay for it, preferably with their lives. But if there was no other option he would accept indefinite incarceration for the killers.

  The top floors of the pink towers came into sight. Stratton checked his watch as he picked up his speed, estimating that he could get his bag, catch a taxi, and be at the airport in about an hour – ample time, he hoped, to catch a domestic flight to Washington DC.

  9

  Stratton made it to LAX in time to catch the 1:55 p.m. US Airways flight that arrived at Ronald Reagan National Airport at twenty minutes to midnight local time. As he stepped through the gate Seaton was waiting at the far side of the arrivals hall watching him, a welcoming smile appearing on his face as they made eye contact.