The Operative s-3

by Falconer, Duncan

  ‘Good flight?’ Seaton asked as Stratton approached.

  ‘Quiet,’ Stratton replied. They shook hands.

  As the plane touched down both men had begun to feel uncomfortable about meeting each other, and not just because of Sally’s and Jack’s recent deaths. Seaton and Stratton were very different animals. Although they were compatible in their work they were not well matched socially. Seaton was essentially a suit, although he had the option to join his men in the field on occasion, as he had during the Iraq operation. Whether or not he did depended on the risk rating, which needed to be fairly low. He was a planner and information collator by trade, having entered the organisation with an MBA in Middle East studies, and he had risen through the ranks, gaining enough experi ence over the years to become a consultant on East European and Middle Eastern anti-terror affairs. He was a little bigger than Stratton, as fit as him and probably stronger physically, but front-line operators always left him with an unmistakable feeling of inadequacy that he hated but was unable to rationalise away. A self-analysis had revealed a latent desire to be one of them, which was not exactly astounding. But the truth was that had he been granted a genie’s wish he would not have chosen that calling. He honestly felt that he was in the far better job but he still could not explain why he continued to feel that twinge of envy.

  ‘It’s good to see you again,’ Seaton said, leading Stratton through the hall that was practically empty compared with its usual daytime bustle. The majority of the people around were night-shift cleaners. ‘You got any other baggage?’

  ‘No,’ Stratton said, shouldering his pack.

  ‘Julie, my wife, has made some food. She won’t be up by the time we get home, though. You’ll see her and the kids in the morning.’

  ‘I never thought of you as married,’ Stratton said.

  ‘Thirteen years.’ Seaton sounded neither regretful nor proud.

  ‘Long time.’

  ‘Yep.’

  They headed out of the terminal to the short-term car park where Seaton’s car was waiting practically alone in the concrete-pillared cavern. A few minutes later they were driving along the George Washington Memorial Parkway that followed the south bank of the Potomac as it curved north-west.

  Stratton decided not to mention his request for help in making contact with the FBI. He’d leave it to Seaton to broach the subject. There was no point in pushing him. He would either play ball or not, depending on his own concerns – which he’d had ample time to contemplate.

  The airport was a good ten minutes behind them when, neither men having said a word since leaving the terminal, Stratton felt Seaton glance at him.

  ‘Well, it sure is a small world,’ Seaton said. ‘How true is that in our business?’

  Stratton could only wonder what he was referring to.

  ‘Never ceases to amaze me how everything is connected to everything else if you examine it long enough,’ Seaton went on. ‘Ever hear the name Skender before – Daut Skender?’

  ‘That a person?’ Stratton asked dryly, assuming that it was.

  ‘A man. That job you did in Kazakhstan – if you’d been involved at ops level you’d have heard his name.’

  Stratton glanced at Seaton, wondering why he had mentioned that assignment.

  ‘Lit my eyes up when I saw his name on the FBI report,’ Seaton continued. ‘He’s Albanian Mafia, hence the connection to your Almaty adventure – they were the crew ferrying the heroin through the mountains. Skender is a very big fish in a very big pond of organised crime. The Albanians don’t get as much airtime as the Russian and Italian Mafias mainly because of their political position but also because no one knows who most of the bosses are. Skender is the head of one of fifteen clans that have ruled Albania for centuries. They got big, and they stay big, by working with everyone: Italian N’dranheta, Comorra, Stidda and the Russian Solsentskya mob. When the FBI finally broke up the pizza connection all the Eastern European mobs moved in to fill the void, in America as well as Italy. But it was easier for the Albanians to take over because of their traditional ties with the Sicilian Mafia. They’re into every kind of smuggling you can imagine, including heroin and arms. Skender was big in the early 1990s but his stock went through the roof after the Kosovo conflict thanks to the US and UK governments. Before the war we got the IMF to impose economic sanctions that caused Albania’s economy to collapse, putting us in a prime position to ‘save’ them. Skender was one of the organisers of the Kosovo Liberation Army against Milosevic. We trained and equipped the KLA and then handed them the bulk of the rebuilding contracts after our bombers levelled the place. Skender used those projects to launder millions of his illegal dollars and in a few short months he became a legitimate billionaire. By the end of the decade he was, or at least we suspect he was, running Europe’s most powerful heroin cartel. You’re probably wondering what the hell this has got to do with Sally.’

  Stratton didn’t want to interrupt, expecting Seaton to get to the point eventually. All he had been briefed about the Almaty job was that the trade route was used by Islamic terrorist organisations moving components of WMDs, weapons of mass destruction, into the West. Interestingly, the boxes found on Mohammad Al-Forouf’s train in Iraq had been identical in appearance to those that Stratton had photographed in Almaty and had had traces of heroin as well as explosives in them. But there’d been no sign of WMDs.

  ‘Skender has lived most of his life in Albania,’ Seaton went on, ‘where he has extensive interests in chrome, copper, nickel and platinum as well as an abundance of as yet untapped oil deposits. The guy is one of the most important characters in that part of the world and not just because of his wealth and connections. He has something else, something far more important that we want. He knows the real bad guys. I’m talking Bin Laden, Zakarwy, Usef, Moamar. He can get to them. Hence our very “special” relationship with him. Guess where he lives?’

  ‘I have no idea where this is going but would Los Angeles be too wild a guess?’ Stratton asked.

  ‘Got to connect to Sally somehow,’ Seaton replied with a nod. ‘Skender moved his base of operations to LA from New York a year ago and is currently in the process of centralising his western economic empire on the Pacific Rim, we think in readiness for a move into Asia and south and central America. You’ll see it more clearly if you know the background. This next part is my conjecture after I’d read the FBI file and added to it what little I know from the Almaty operation. I believe the FBI has something on Skender – although they wouldn’t tell us if they did. It looks like they waited until he’d set up his West Coast oper ation and secured a couple billion dollars in US and foreign banks that we have some control over before they moved in on him. He hasn’t left the country in more than nine months, which is unusual, but neither has the FBI charged him with any crimes. Yet all the signs indicate that they’re exerting some kind of pressure on him. If the Feds aren’t moving in it’s because they’re getting something out of it. At a guess I’d say they were pushing for his al-Qaeda connections. They don’t need to physi cally tie him down because if he runs they’ll seize his assets, and not just in the US. The FBI are pretty well entrenched in Eastern Europe now and have a lot of influence. US control of much of the world market has many advantages. Sally was killed by two of Skender’s soldiers. Open up that glove compartment.’

  Stratton opened the compartment in front of him to reveal an inch-thick manila envelope.

  ‘Inside the envelope,’ Seaton said.

  Stratton removed the envelope and took out its contents: a file containing dozens of photocopied pages.

  ‘What you have there is the long version of what I’ve just told you. Go to the first tab.’

  Stratton held the tab and flicked over a quarter of the file to reveal a photograph of a grisly-looking man in his late thirties.

  ‘Read the guy’s name,’ Seaton asked.

  ‘Ardian Cano.’

  ‘There were two guys involved in Sally’s death. He’s o
ne of them. Let me give you another little bit of background. A characteristic of the Albanian crime families – and a major reason why they remain so powerful – is the way they stand together, especially in a crisis. No one gets in unless they’re family, and God help anyone who tries to come between them. They’re famous for their brutality, chopping up their enemies into pieces – including those enemies’ women and children. You cross them and your family could end up being savagely punished. In Albania entire villages have been executed because of a single dispute. It’s effective and people think twice about screwing with these guys. Go to the next page.’

  Stratton turned the page to reveal a picture of another man, equally brutal-looking. ‘Leka Bufi,’ he said, reading the name on the top.

  ‘Bufi is Ardian Cano’s partner,’ Seaton explained, ‘and the other guy involved in Sally’s murder. Both men were in the KLA together under another guy I’ll come to in a minute. The CIA has files on them because we also happened to train them. Skender used the Kosovo war to settle a lot of territorial disputes, which is how he gained control over many of the clans – those two characters came out of Kosovo with a lot of blood on their hands. Both Ardian and Leka are lowlifes, small fry and not related to Skender who might well have thrown them to the wolves for killing Sally but for one reason. Ardian just happens to have a family connection close to Skender. Next page.’

  Stratton flicked between Bufi and Cano, embedding their images in his memory before turning the page to a photo of another man. ‘Ivor Vleshek.’

  ‘So his papers say. Claims to be Russian, a Muscovite and Skender’s right-hand henchman – which is interesting, considering Skender’s penchant for nepotism. So why does Skender have a non-Albanian that close to the family? We’re pretty certain that Vleshek’s real name is Dren Cano, Ardian Cano’s younger brother. Ardian and Leka were under Dren Cano’s command while in the KLA. Dren was more intelligent than his older brother and much more ruthless. So bad, in fact, that he was wanted by the war crimes tribunal. Shortly after the end of the war Dren went missing, which was no surprise. The few prewar pictures we have of him are too poor to match. If that is Dren Cano then it goes a long way to explaining why Ardian and Leka have not been arrested for killing Sally.’

  ‘The FBI has Ardian Cano and Leka Bufi down as suspects?’

  ‘They were identified by a Korean shopkeeper who witnessed the killing. The shopkeeper’s son was almost killed by Ardian that same afternoon. The son’s a small-time pusher who owed Ardian some money. Can you see how the picture is coming together?’

  ‘You’re suggesting Ardian and Leka are not being charged with Sally’s murder because of a special relationship that Skender has with the FBI? You’ve got to be joking.’

  ‘No, I don’t think that. It’s one more thing they’ll have against his organisation. What I am saying is that it might be a question of timing. There is another problem, of course. No witness will testify against Skender’s people in court. That Korean shopkeeper spilled the names but he won’t say anything under oath.’

  Stratton looked unmoved but deep inside he was stunned.

  ‘At the end of the day it’s going to be like any other crime,’ Seaton said. ‘Their guilt has to be proven.’

  Stratton looked up as a sign passed indicating that Langley Fork Park was next right. Langley was the CIA’s vast operational headquarters. They carried straight on through the junction. Stratton went back to the file and turned the page.

  The next photograph was of a man much older than the others, in his early sixties and clean-shaven. He had a large head with long, straggly hair combed back and looked every bit as hard as the younger men.

  ‘That’s Skender,’ Seaton said.

  Stratton studied the photograph for only a moment before going back to the two men who interested him most. A minute later he shut the file and put it back inside the manila envelope.

  Traffic was light as they joined the brightly lit Interstate 495. After less than a mile Seaton took an exit onto a highway and a short distance later turned along a minor road. He pulled sharply into the driveway of a large, two-storey house before killing the engine and turning off the lights.

  ‘Home sweet home,’ Seaton said, opening his door.

  They climbed out and Stratton grabbed his pack off the back seat, the manila envelope still in his hand.

  The front garden was manicured and amply stocked with a variety of plant life. Lights were on downstairs while the top floor was in darkness.

  ‘Let’s go around back,’ Seaton said, leading the way. ‘See what we have to eat. I’m hungry. You?’

  ‘I could eat something,’ Stratton said, more out of politeness than genuine hunger.

  Seaton unlocked the back door and stepped into a modern, tidy, well-appointed kitchen. ‘Want a beer?’ he asked.

  ‘Sure,’ Stratton said, putting down his pack and placing the file on top of it. He didn’t particularly fancy one but was fighting against a growing realis ation of his lack of sociability.

  Seaton took a couple of bottles from the fridge, popped them with an opener, handed one to Stratton and offered up the neck of his. ‘Sorry we’re not getting together under better circumstances,’ he said.

  Stratton tapped Seaton’s bottle with his own and they both took a swig.

  ‘Let’s see what the old gal has knocked up, as you guys say,’ Seaton said as he opened the oven. Lifting out a pot with a pair of oven gloves on his hands he removed the lid and looked inside. ‘Hmm. She’s not the best cook in the world,’ he said, keeping his voice low. ‘But she has a couple of dishes she’s worked on over the years that are pretty good. She wouldn’t dare attempt anything new with guests.’

  Seaton put the pot on a breakfast table, took a couple of plates from a cupboard and dug some cutlery out of a drawer. ‘Sit down. Make yourself at home.’

  Stratton sat at the table as Seaton spooned what looked like a stew onto the plates. It smelled good and Stratton suddenly felt properly hungry.

  ‘You got family?’ Seaton asked.

  ‘No,’ Stratton replied.

  ‘You live alone?’

  ‘Yes.’ Stratton didn’t particularly want to talk about his personal life but he knew that it would help to create a more relaxed atmosphere with Seaton. ‘My parents died when I was young. I was an only child.’

  ‘Never been married?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Not even close?’

  ‘Once – maybe. Looking back, I think I was kidding myself. Not her, though, just me. She was a lot smarter.’

  ‘Sounds like that was some years back?’

  ‘Yeah. Family life and this job mix like oil and water; for me at least.’

  ‘You have to work at it, that’s for sure. We’ve had some rough rides but the kids changed everything. You take fewer risks when you’ve got a kid, let me tell you. And coming home means a helluva lot more.’

  Stratton’s thoughts went to Josh and Jack – and to Sally. His only significant experience of a family.

  ‘You go to state or private school, whatever it is you call it in the UK?’ Seaton asked.

  ‘What we’d call a state school – in London,’ Stratton replied, taking a mouthful of the stew. ‘Like most guys I joined up soon as I left school, in my case to get away from the city.’

  ‘You don’t like cities?’

  ‘I don’t like crowds.’

  ‘I’m a country boy myself. Upstate New York. Ever been there?’

  ‘Nope. Haven’t been to very many places in the States. Mostly Norfolk, Virginia.’

  ‘Navy SEALs?’

  Stratton nodded as he took another mouthful of food.

  ‘I almost joined the SEALs.’

  ‘You were in the navy?’

  ‘No.’

  Stratton thought that was strange since, as he understood it, you had to be a member of the US Navy to join the SEALs. Seaton picked up on his curious look.

  ‘I went to Chicago University,’
Seaton explained. ‘Got an MBA in Mideast studies and joined the Rangers. Did two years as an LT when I had an urge to be a navy SEAL. I was about to transfer over to the navy when I got the call to join the agency. I’m telling the story kinda back to front but – well, I had an uncle who was a CIA deputy in Cuba at the time. We got drunk together at my father’s wake, while I was in the Rangers, and I told him I wanted to be a CIA agent. I only half meant it – kinda sorta. The SEALs were my first choice but the truth was anything that was, you know, special would do. I didn’t know much about special forces or the CIA. Next thing I know my CO calls me into his office and tells me I’m not joining the navy and I’m off to Camp Peary to do CIA selection. Fifteen years later, here I am.’

  Seaton went back to his meal. ‘Well, so much for how we end up doing what we end up doing,’ he said, struggling to be philosophical.

  Something was obviously bothering him and Stratton decided to leave it alone.

  ‘I was surprised that the Albanian syndicates would still want to have anything serious to do with Islamic terrorists,’ Seaton went on as if eager to change the subject. ‘But I guess they have to keep their trade routes moving and al-Qaeda, or whatever you want to call them, do have a lot of control over product. This whole business of trying to nail the syndicates and put them out of business is bullshit, though. It’s expensive, takes up a lot of manpower, and soon as you put one group away another moves in to take its place. You want my opinion, it would be best to leave them where they are and work on controlling them.’

  ‘Maybe that’s what the FBI is doing with Skender,’ Stratton said.

  ‘Hail to them if it’s true.’

  ‘So you agree with letting the syndicates get away with crimes, then?’ Stratton asked dryly.

  ‘Okay. I ran into that one but you know I don’t want anyone to get away with Sally’s murder. Look at it objectively for a moment if you can. Don’t let your anger cloud the reality. Truth is, everyone’s allowed to get away with something now and then.’