The Operative s-3

by Falconer, Duncan

  There were only two other people sharing the patio with Stratton, a couple at a table on the far side who were deep in conversation. Stratton placed his Gucci carrier bag on the seat beside him and picked up the menu, glancing occasionally at the Albanian’s table.

  Stratton had checked the place over the evening before his first stake-out, taking a drink at the bar while watching people at the tables. He’d come up with a simple enough idea for killing Ardian – though it was perhaps a bit gruesome. It did, however, rely heavily on an unwitting character to play a major role, someone whom he had not yet met. But as the double doors from the restaurant opened he looked up to see that very person walking towards him. She was wearing a classic interpretation of the uniform of an Italian waiter: black trousers, a crisp, white shirt and colourful tie, and a white apron, tied at her waist, that reached almost to her shoes. She was short and ample in build with a busy head of dyed red hair and her practised smile appeared as she closed in, holding a small green bottle and a glass.

  ‘Hi, there,’ she exclaimed, her eyes wide as if he had just magically appeared. ‘And how is your day going so far?’

  ‘Fine,’ Stratton replied with equal enthusiasm, as if they knew each other. ‘How’s yours been?’

  ‘Great,’ she said a pitch higher while displaying two perfect rows of large white teeth. ‘Have you had a chance to look at the menu?’ she asked as she unscrewed the bottle-top and half filled the glass that already had ice and a wedge of lime in it with the fizzy water.

  ‘Yes. I’d like a bowl of spaghetti bolognese.’

  ‘Sure,’ she beamed. ‘Not a problem. Anything else?’

  ‘That’ll be fine, thanks. Have you worked here long?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ve been here about a month. I’m from out of town – Oklahoma. I came here six weeks ago, got a great apartment only twenty blocks from the beach and this is the first place I applied for a job and they asked me to start the next day. I was so jazzed. It’s so perfect here.’

  ‘You’re an actress, right?’

  ‘Yes! How’d you guess?’

  ‘You look like one,’ Stratton said, radiating flattery. You could throw a stone anywhere in Los Angeles and hit a wannabe thespian. They arrived in Tinsel Town by the thousands every year from all over America and the world, looking for stardom, but only a handful ever succeeded in scraping even a meagre living from it.

  ‘Thanks,’ the waitress said, practically bursting with joy at having her talents recognised. ‘Are you in the business?’ she asked.

  ‘No. Nothing as glamorous, I’m afraid. I’m an accountant – for the company that owns this restaurant, actually.’ The night of his reconnaissance Stratton had read the blurb at the front door that described the chain of restaurants dotted around the city, all owned by one corporation. ‘I’m quite new, too. I’m gradually doing the rounds of the restaurants, you know, getting to know them.’

  ‘Oh. Shall I tell the manager you’re here?’

  ‘Do me a favour and keep it to yourself until I’ve finished my meal,’ Stratton said, lowering his voice. ‘I’ll pop into the office once I’m done. I want a quiet lunch.’

  ‘Gotcha,’ she said, tapping the side of her nose and winking. ‘I’ll go put your order in.’

  As the waitress walked away back into the restaurant she was beckoned by someone at Ardian’s table. Stratton watched as she walked over to them, replying to whatever she’d been asked. A hand reached out to pat her bottom but she sidestepped to avoid it and from that point on appeared to have difficulty maintaining her smile. A moment later she nodded and, looking flushed, walked over to a computer console where she typed in her orders, pausing a moment to compose herself as if she had been through a small trauma.

  Stratton snapped off a piece of breadstick, dipped it in the olive paste and ate it while a distant siren broke through the sound of the beach traffic. Seconds later a police car speeded down the boulevard and off into the distance.

  Stratton picked up the Gucci carrier bag, placed it on his lap and opened it. Inside was a plastic resealable sandwich bag containing what looked like spaghetti soaked in a light transparent oil. Inside another clear wrapping was a tiny white plastic moulding the size and shape of a thimble. The waitress came back onto the patio, carrying a tray. He closed the top of the Gucci bag as she placed a bowl of spaghetti bolognese and a small dish of freshly grated parmesan cheese in front of him. Then she held out a large wooden pepper grinder.

  ‘Black pepper?’ she offered as she aimed it over his meal.

  ‘No, that’ll be fine, thanks.’

  ‘Can I get you anything else?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m good.’

  ‘Great. Let me know if you need anything.’ She beamed again as she picked up the empty tray, turned on her heel and walked away.

  Stratton opened the carrier bag, took out the sandwich bags and carefully opened the seal on the one containing the spaghetti, which was in fact SX cortex or detonation cord in a light machine oil. The oil played an important part in giving malleability to the plastic explosives. Stratton opened the smaller bag and removed the plastic component. Then he took one of the lengths of cortex, dabbed its end with his napkin to remove the oil and pushed it into a hole in the plastic component that was designed to grip it. He then scooped the bolognese sauce onto a side plate, forked some of the spaghetti into the Gucci bag, replaced it with the spaghetti-like cortex, mixed that with the remaining warm spaghetti to blend it in and slipped the small plastic device underneath to conceal it. Then he poured the bolognese sauce back on top. After tidying it up, cleaning the rim of the bowl with his napkin and sprinkling a little parmesan on top it looked as neat as when it had first been placed on the table.

  Stratton looked for the waitress. She was near the entrance, talking to the hostess. He raised a hand. The hostess noticed him and nudged the waitress who headed towards him as he put the sandwich bags into the small carrier bag which he then folded and pushed into a trouser pocket.

  ‘Is everything okay?’ the waitress asked as she entered the patio.

  ‘I haven’t even tasted it yet. I wanted to ask you something. Do you know those gentlemen at that table in there?’

  She glanced over to where the Albanians were sitting and her smile waned. ‘Those guys? I don’t know them but they’re regulars,’ she said, as if regretting that was a fact.

  ‘One of them is a Mister Cano – Ardian Cano.’

  ‘Yeah, he’s in here at least twice a week.’

  ‘He’s a bit of a handful, isn’t he?’

  ‘That’s an understatement,’ she said. ‘They’ve got a lotta hands, though. He a friend of yours? Because if he is I’d like you to ask him and his friends not to be so rude—’

  ‘He’s no friend of mine,’ Stratton said. ‘In fact, he was down at the Water Grill the other day,’ he went on, naming one of the chain of restaurants downtown. ‘He implied that some of the food was not up to scratch, notably the bolognese sauce.’

  ‘He never said anything to any of us, as far as I know,’ the waitress said, looking bemused.

  ‘It wasn’t a formal complaint,’ Stratton said, making light of it. ‘It was just something he said in passing. Anyway, I’d like you to do me a favour. Would you give this dish to Mr Cano, tell him it’s with the comp liments of the house and that we would very much like his expert opinion on it. You see, I think he perhaps had a one-off bad dish that day and this way we can get a firsthand comment from him. What do you think?’

  ‘Sure.’ She shrugged. ‘Personally I think he’s a pig and wouldn’t know bolognese from dog food. But you’re the boss.’

  ‘I’m not anyone’s boss – I’m just following orders.’

  ‘Whatever.’ She smiled. ‘I’ll give it to him.’

  ‘Thanks,’ he said as she picked the dish off the table.

  ‘But if he touches my butt I’m gonna pour it over his head.’

  ‘Not this time,’ Stratton said in a pleading manner
. ‘Just this once be nice – if he touches you I promise he’ll never do it again.’

  ‘Sure?’ she asked.

  ‘I give you my word,’ Stratton said with undiluted sincerity.

  ‘You got it,’ she said and walked into the restaurant, carrying the dish.

  Stratton quickly wiped everything that he had touched, the glass, dishes and cutlery. Then he stood and walked around the table.

  The waitress placed the bowl on the table as she explained to Ardian what Stratton had asked her to.

  Stratton took a device the size of a matchbox from his pocket and pushed a button on its face: a tiny red LED light flickered. As he walked through the doors into the restaurant he pushed the button a second time and the LED light turned green. He put his hand with the device in it in his pocket and glanced over at Ardian who was looking between the bowl and the waitress as she answered a question. Stratton slowed to a crawl as Ardian looked down.

  Stratton’s thumb lightly touched the button on the device but he was unable to initiate the process yet. There was enough SX in the bowl for the blast to cause Ardian serious injury but the waitress was too close. Explosives had two distinctive, destructive characteristics: blast, which was a combination of shock wave and rapidly expanding gases that disrupted tissue; and shrapnel, which was low-velocity matter. The cortex was purely blast but since it sat in a china bowl there was a high risk of shrapnel.

  Stratton pretended to be looking at the various Italian country murals that covered the walls while continually glancing at Ardian who now moved the bowl towards one of his friends. The man leaned down to sniff it and they all laughed at something one of them said which appeared to disgust the waitress. Ardian reached for the bread bowl, took a roll, pushed it into his large mouth and chewed greedily as he talked. The bowl of spaghetti travelled to another of the men who dipped a fork into the sauce and inspected the texture before tasting it. The bowl was then pushed back to Ardian who pulled it under his face for another close sniff. Stratton’s finger stayed poised on the button: the waitress was still too close to escape possible injury.

  Stratton’s peripheral vision suddenly caught movement at the restaurant entrance. But he fought not to look because the waitress had stepped back and the ideal moment to detonate the device seemed to be at hand. Then Ardian’s face broke into a broad grin and he stood up. Stratton looked towards the entrance to see Dren Cano walking in with Klodi who was wearing a heavy cast around his hand. The brothers greeted each other with a hug and held each other’s hands as they stood and talked.

  Stratton turned his back on them, suddenly concerned that his disguise would not stand up to any level of scrutiny. He decided to get out of the restaurant as soon as possible but his problem was how to retrieve the device. Chairs were dragged over from nearby tables and the men talked loudly as Stratton moved along the wall towards the entrance, feigning interest in the various bits of artwork until he came to an antique cabinet with glass-panelled doors. He could see the men in the reflection. Cano was seated beside his brother, ordering drinks from the waitress.

  As Stratton was about to carry on moving to the exit he was stopped by a sudden change of mind. He shifted position to improve his view in the poor reflection to gauge Ardian’s proximity to the bowl which was in front of him again – and now there was the added bonus of his brother being close by. Stratton could still not see clearly enough and he wanted to turn around to get a better look. But the waitress was still taking the men’s orders and so he waited, fingering the button on the device and ensuring that his departure route was clear. When he looked back into the reflection he saw Klodi looking directly at him.

  One of Klodi’s compadres was trying to involve him in a conversation, unaware of Klodi’s sudden interest until the man got to his feet.

  Stratton looked at Ardian’s reflection to see that he had a fork in his hand and was about to dip it into the spaghetti, still talking with his brother. Klodi stepped to one side to get a better look at the man with his back to him who looked vaguely familiar.

  Stratton had only seconds to decide whether to get out of the restaurant right away or risk another fight with Cano that he might not survive this time. His gaze flashed to Ardian who was now dipping the fork into the bowl. Then he saw Klodi say something to his friend and they both looked at Stratton with interest. Klodi took a step towards Stratton as Ardian dug the fork into the spaghetti and twirled it around, mixing it into the sauce. He pulled the bowl beneath his chin, lowered his head and drew the luscious, writhing bundle up to his mouth.

  ‘Hey! You!’ Klodi called out to Stratton as he took another step towards him.

  The overburdened fork approached Ardian’s mouth. It opened like a grouper’s and the dripping pasta was pushed inside, tendrils of spaghetti hanging down, still connected to the rest of the meal in the bowl. His teeth came down onto the al dente mass and then froze in mid-bite as his taste buds detected something unusual. His gaze dropped to the bowl where he noticed something else that was unusual. The fork dipped back into the remaining pasta where it retrieved and raised the tiny plastic device with the single strand of spaghetti hanging from it.

  Stratton turned from the cabinet as the waitress passed him. He headed for the entrance, intent now on getting out fast.

  ‘Hey, you! Klodi called out again, moving to intercept him.

  Stratton’s finger hit the button on the device as he walked out of view of the table and the hostess’s ‘Goodbye, have a great day’ was cut short. The explosion was like an enormously loud clap, singularly sharp and high-pitched. It was immediately followed by the noise of smashing glass, a tremor as the building shook slightly, a short, echoing rumble that brought down the ornate ceiling light onto the table and finally a piercing scream from the waitress.

  Ardian’s body remained in position for several seconds after the explosion, surrounded by a light wisp of smoke, his head completely gone along with the hand that had been holding the fork. Blood spurted in a weak fountain as rapidly decreasing pressure in the arteries at either side of his windpipe pumped it down over his chest and back and onto the floor.

  Cano was lying on his side, holding his face with bloody hands. Everyone had been struck by bits of Ardian and spaghetti bolognese though it was difficult to tell the difference. Only a row of front lower teeth attached to a piece of jaw on the table was recognisably human debris. For several seconds the other men remained frozen in shock.

  When Cano lowered his hands, blood was dribbling from cuts all over his face and in particular from one of his eyes where a piece of white china was sticking out. Ardian’s torso fell forward with a heavy thump to cover a large, almost perfectly symmetrical hole in the table where the bowl had been. The compression of his chest and stomach against the edge of the table caused a spurt of blood and mucus to shoot from his severed neck onto one of his colleague’s laps.

  Cano was in a great deal of pain and sat perfectly still as he opened his good eye wide enough to look at what was left of his brother. For a moment he remained in shock, his ears ringing loudly while he took in what had happened and brought himself under control. He also had to deal with the intense stinging in his wounded eye.

  Klodi was the first to recover since he had not been facing the blast. As he glanced around at the mess he removed something wet that had struck him on the neck and discovered that it was a top lip with a bit of nose attached. He flicked it away in disgust and made his way to the entrance where the hostess was crawling around on the floor, throwing up and crying at the same time. Klodi stepped over her and reached for the door where the valets were cautiously looking through, opened it and shuffled down the steps and onto the sidewalk. Half a dozen or so people were in the street, all of whom had stopped to look towards the restaurant but Klodi could see no sign of the man he was certain was the one who had fought him in the limo.

  Stratton was already in the park and taking the long way back to his apartment while he removed his goatee and dark glas
ses and carried out a post-operation analysis, searching his memory for any way that he might have left obvious clues. All in all he felt the hit had been a success. He now needed to put it behind him and concentrate on the final stage of his mission, which was to get Josh and his mother’s body home. He had completed the revenge phase but he felt a hint of concern about being discovered. He would pay a heavy price for the murders if he was caught and if he did end up in jail the question of whether it had all really been worth it would haunt him.

  As Stratton entered his apartment and closed the door sirens on vehicles coming to a stop close by drifted in through the windows. He considered quitting the apartment and finding somewhere else to stay. On the other hand, if the police connected him to either of the incidents before he finished what he had to do they would find him no matter where he lived. He thought about the prospect of going on the run for the rest of his life and considered the many places around the world where he could lose himself. Africa sprang to mind, where he could do mercenary work, or the Far East where he could bounty-hunt pirates for local police forces. There were actually, plenty of countries where he could hide while earning an okay living but he shook the thoughts from his head, growing irritated with himself. He sat back on the small sofa to take the weight off his feet, a jabbing pain shooting through his ribs to remind him of his injury. He would have liked to go to sleep there and then but he had to get over to the child-protection centre and see Josh. Stratton pulled himself off the couch before he got any more comfortable and went into the bedroom to wash and change.

  17

  Hobart sat in his office on the eleventh floor of the big grey Federal building on Wilshire Boulevard. The road ran east from Santa Monica’s cliffs three miles away and across the entire city. The FBI’s California headquarters was situated in Westwood, LA’s secondary business centre that was crammed with towering glass office blocks overlooking a vast university campus.