The Hijack s-2

by Duncan Falconer

  ‘Do you go to Lulworth Cove much?’ the MI officer asked. ‘Delightful part of the country.’

  ‘Nice place to dive,’ Stratton said.

  ‘Clams,’ the man said. ‘Very good clams.’

  ‘One of the reasons we like to dive there.’

  ‘Very sensible.’

  The conversation paused there and a silence hung between them. It was for Sumners’ boss to lead the talking and so Stratton and Sumners sat quietly, waiting for him to continue.The man leaned forward to pick up his glass and took a sip. He inspected the contents for a second then put it back on the table. Stratton wasn’t sure if he caught a faint look of disapproval.

  ‘Are you superstitious, Stratton?’ the man eventually asked.

  ‘Superstitious?’ Stratton echoed. He expected the man to get on with the operation pre-brief but it sounded as if he was still making idle chit-chat. ‘You mean walking under ladders and breaking mirrors?’

  ‘That sort of thing,’ the man said.

  ‘No.’

  ‘What about the supernatural?’ the man asked.

  Stratton glanced at Sumners wondering where this line of questioning was leading but his old boss was firmly in the back seat and keeping quiet, staring straight ahead deep in his own thoughts as if he were not part of the conversation.

  ‘You mean ghosts?’ Stratton asked.

  ‘If you like. How do you feel about ghosts? Do you believe they exist?’

  ‘It’s like the question of life on another planet. I don’t give it much thought.’

  ‘But you’re not opposed to the idea. Things like ghosts. You don’t believe it’s all a load of rubbish?’

  Stratton was tempted to ask what this was about but decided to play the man’s game. These types weren’t known for wasting much time on idle talk, especially with the likes of Stratton, a mere field operative. The questions had to have something to do with the op but Stratton couldn’t begin to imagine what.

  ‘I wouldn’t say it was rubbish, but I wouldn’t argue in its favour,’ Stratton said.

  ‘What about clairvoyants? Do you believe they can get in touch with the afterlife and learn about things that have happened or are about to happen?’

  ‘I’ve never met one. I’ve heard stories from police officers who’ve used them on occasion.’

  ‘Oh? What sort of stories?’

  ‘I was told how a clairvoyant helped find the body of a little girl who had been murdered and then she, the clairvoyant, directed the police to clues that led them to who did it.’

  ‘And do you believe that was what happened?’

  ‘I believe the officer who told me the story believed it.’

  ‘You mean you would have to see it for yourself to believe it?’

  ‘I think if I bet money against it being true I would lose, but that doesn’t mean I’m a believer . . . Can I ask what this is all about?’

  The man smiled slightly then checked his watch, leaned forward, picked up his drink and took another sip. He put the glass down and stood up to pull on a heavy, dark-blue wool coat.

  ‘You can go ahead, Sumners,’ he said. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  ‘Right, sir,’ Sumners said without getting up.

  The man smiled thinly at Stratton again. ‘Good luck,’ he said, and walked out of the pub.

  Stratton watched him go then looked at Sumners for an explanation. ‘What was that all about?’

  ‘After I tabled your name for the job, he asked me how broad-minded you were in the area of the supernatural and I couldn’t give him a satisfactory answer, not knowing you that well. So before we went ahead with the brief he wanted to ask you himself.’

  ‘Well that’s made it all perfectly clear,’ Stratton said.

  Sumners finished his drink and stood.

  ‘You’re saying that was a test,’ Stratton said, his expression conveying that if so it was a strange one.

  ‘If you like . . . Let’s go for a walk,’ Sumners said as he stood and headed for the door.

  Stratton sighed, got up and followed.

  They stepped outside and Sumners put his hands in his coat pockets and at a slow pace walked towards the river where a cold mist was starting to form.

  ‘He simply wanted to know how open-minded you are.’

  ‘I’d have thought assassinating people required an open mind.’

  ‘Not as much as this job I fear,’ Sumners said tiredly, as if he wasn’t quite as open-minded as the task required. ‘If you thought this was going to be on the front line I’m afraid you’re going to be disappointed.’

  ‘You said it was to do with the supertanker.’

  ‘In this world of global terrorism no source of intelligence can be ignored, no matter how far it stretches the boundaries of reality, or our concept of it. As you know, no form of intelligence gathering is one hundred per cent reliable. That’s why we employ a great variety of methods to acquire it. To corroborate and substantiate, analyse and cross check.’

  Sumners walked a little further in silence, gathering his thoughts. ‘You’re going to meet someone,’ he said. ‘A man. He works for the CIA.’

  ‘A field operative?’

  ‘No. Not your idea of one anyway.’

  Stratton pondered why a member of the American Central Intelligence Agency would need a Brit MI6 operative assigned to him. ‘Is this some kind of local bodyguard task?’ he asked, praying it was not.

  ‘Not exactly . . . You’re going to be doing some decoding.’

  ‘Decoding?’

  ‘He will provide information and you will decode it.’

  ‘Have you forgotten who and what I am? This is Stratton. I’m a thug, which is what you turned me into by the way. I used to see myself as an intelligence gatherer and a sophisticated direct-action operative, until you made me into a murderer.’

  ‘That’s a bit over the top, Stratton. Unlike you.’

  Stratton realised he was much more flippant with Sumners than he used to be. That was not so much to do with familiarity as with experience. Even though it had been a year since they last talked, Stratton felt he knew the man better.

  ‘Decoders have large brains and sit in comfortable offices,’ Stratton said.

  ‘It’s not quite that kind of decoding.You’ll understand better when you meet him.’

  ‘So who exactly is this person?’

  ‘You’ve heard of psychic spies?’

  Stratton’s brow furrowed.‘Is that what all the supernatural questions were about?’

  ‘I empathised with your analogy about not betting against its existence but then not quite being a believer. I would have described this man to you as a kind of clairvoyant but when I suggested as much during the initial brief I received from the CIA I was told that was not at all correct. Ever heard of “remote viewing” in an intelligence-gathering term?’

  ‘Wireless video?’

  ‘Imagine being able to do exactly that, see something miles away but without any technological aids.’

  Stratton furrowed his brow again.This was becoming bizarre.

  ‘What about precognition?’ Sumners asked.

  ‘Seeing into the future?’

  ‘Yes.This is where my understanding of it all starts to get a bit foggy. I apologise. I’m not sure if precognition is the same as remote viewing . . . The example they gave me was PanAm flight 103 that crashed into Lockerbie after terrorists blew it up. A few hours after it happened, remote viewers apparently saw the bomb that brought it down inside a music box.They also saw a back-up bomb; an Iranian woman who lost her family when the Americans shot down that Iranian airliner from one of their missile frigates had explosives strapped around her waist. If the music box hadn’t gone off she would’ve detonated hers. For decades the CIA has used psychics as intelligence gatherers. Apparently we’ve been quite heavily into it ourselves.This is the first time I’ve ever had anything to do with it.The difference between clairvoyants and remote viewers is clairvoyants use the supernatural
whereas remote viewers use alpha waves. I suppose one is spiritual and the other scientific. Remote viewers are able to focus on things, the other side of the world if need be: people, objects, smells, colours, emotions. The thing is they don’t always understand what they see. The information they gather has to be analysed, or decoded. Apparently, a remote viewer was tasked to access Osama bin Laden’s mind after the Twin Tower attack to learn his mental state - was he worried or feeling good and secure, that sort of thing. The viewer saw him in a cave, but which cave and where in the world was it? That’s the decoding part.’

  Stratton stopped walking and looked at Sumners, trying to control a growing suspicion of the man’s motives for calling him in.

  ‘Is this some kind of a joke?’ Stratton snapped, more irate with Sumners than he had ever been before. ‘Stratton’s all burned out so we’ll give him the crap at the bottom of the barrel. Is that what this job is? Looking after Harry Potter’s dad? Well, thanks very much, Sumners, but no thanks. You can shove this one up your arse.’

  Stratton started to walk away.

  ‘Calm down, Stratton. Listen to me.This is important . . . He saw the tanker assault,’ Sumners called out to him, then checked to make sure the street was empty, which it was. ‘He saw it being captured and the crew butchered.’

  Stratton slowed to a stop and looked back at him, his curiosity piqued.

  ‘My boss hates the Grenadier,’ Sumners continued.

  ‘I assure you he wouldn’t have come down here to see you or anybody if he thought the job was the bottom of the barrel.’

  ‘The tanker was hit around midnight,’ Stratton said.

  ‘If someone knew about it why did we hit it at the last minute half a day later?’

  ‘That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you about the decoding side of it. There are thousands of tankers sailing the oceans of the world at any one time. The viewer couldn’t see its name or tell where in the world it was.The decoders didn’t have enough knowledge or information to decode what he saw.’

  Stratton faced Sumners. The hook was going in.

  ‘And what am I supposed to do, hang around with him until he has another vision?’

  ‘They’re not visions. Look upon them as searches. He’s already found something and apparently it scared the hell out of him. I’m afraid we’ve not been able to decode it either.We need someone on the ground with him all the time, asking questions, clarifying the information. Decoding teams will also be on hand as usual. Different viewers are sensitive to different things. This one sees locations but he’s also sensitive to emotions. So far he’s described what he’s seen or felt as an enormous danger but he can’t tell what that is. To use his own words, he’s never felt anything so horrific in his life.’

  ‘If this is so big, why me? I mean, this isn’t exactly my job description.’

  ‘Right now our intelligence resources are stretched thinner than they’ve ever been in our history. Wonderful though remote viewers may sound in theory, they are greatly flawed. Much of their information cannot be accurately decoded. It’s often misleading. On average they’re rated at six per cent accuracy.Your rating as a field operative for instance is ninety-two per cent.What you see and report back is real and usually easily verifiable. But the six per cent the remote viewers give us that is successfully decoded is worth the fortune it costs the CIA to run its psychic department - according to them at least . . . These recent viewings are related to the tanker. That’s what this particular viewer has been concentrating on ever since it was attacked . . . And that’s why you are here.’

  Sumners had done a good job stroking Stratton’s ego and expectancy back into shape.There was some importance attached to the assignment and it was interesting.

  ‘He’s here then, in England?’ Stratton asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  The two men faced each other in the dark street, neither sure of where they stood in this most unusual and possibly ridiculous task. All their years of training in their respective disciplines had not prepared them for an operation like this.

  ‘Okay,’ Stratton finally said. It was bizarre, but why not? What else was going on?

  Sumners took a photograph from his pocket and handed it to Stratton. It was a headshot. The man appeared to be in his late fifties, had short grey hair and was refined looking. Sumners took the picture back after Stratton had studied it for a few seconds.

  ‘He’s described as sensitive with occasional unstable tendencies but not violently so. He’s also paranoid and perhaps even schizophrenic.’ Sumners took a package from his coat pocket and handed it to Stratton. ‘Cell-phone and charger. My numbers are programmed into it as well as others you might need. There’s also five thousand pounds expenses money, a credit card and your MI6 ID. The routine hasn’t changed. Expenses must be justified, all fares economy and I’ll need receipts for anything over five pounds. He’s at the Victory Club under the name of Gabriel Stockton, room 534.’

  ‘The Victory Club?’ Stratton asked. It was a hotel around the corner from Marble Arch, a basic discount hotel for currently serving and former members of the British military and their families.

  ‘Where did you expect us to put him up? Claridge’s? He’s expecting you tonight. I’ve reserved you a room next to his. I look forward to hearing from you.’

  Sumners turned and walked away.

  ‘How come he’s expecting me when you didn’t know I’d take the job?’

  ‘I must be psychic,’ Sumners said without looking back and walked past the entrance to the pub and disappeared around the corner.

  Stratton frowned and then weighed the package in his hand, his mind already searching ahead. He was used to automatically planning as many aspects as he could of a new assignment immediately after a briefing, and sometimes during it, but this one left him with little else to contemplate other than how to get to Marble Arch.

  He pocketed the package and headed down the street, his philosophical old self surfacing once again. There was never a dull moment in MI6.

  Stratton’s taxi pulled up outside the Victory Club, half a block from the corner of Edgware Road, and he climbed out and handed the fare to the driver.

  ‘Can I have a receipt, please?’

  The taxi driver handed him a blank receipt and drove away.

  ‘Good evening, sir,’ a cheerful Eastern European in a doorman’s uniform bid Stratton as he opened the front door for him. Stratton returned the greeting as he walked inside and headed for the reception desk.

  After checking in, Stratton walked around a corner to the elevator, stepped inside and pushed the fifth-floor button. A few seconds later, he exited the elevator on the fifth floor and headed along the corridor, passing a dozen or so rooms bearing brass plaques dedicating them to an assortment of British regiments, until he reached room 534.

  He placed his ear close to the door but couldn’t hear anything, no television or movement.

  He knocked.

  A creaking sound suggested someone was getting off a bed, then came a voice: ‘Who is it?’ a man said with a hint of an American accent.

  ‘It’s Stratton.’

  ‘Who?’

  Stratton wondered if someone had already screwed up and forgotten to give the guy his name. ‘Stratton. I was told you were expecting me.’

  There was a moment’s silence. ‘One second,’ the voice eventually said. Stratton could hear more movement. A moment later the door was unlatched and opened wide enough for the man to look out. Stratton recognised him from the photograph though he was taller than expected, perhaps an inch or so on top of Stratton, his hair had more silver in it and he had a far more distinguished look in the flesh.

  Gabriel studied Stratton with what appeared to be suspicion for an inordinately long time.

  ‘Stratton?’ the man asked, looking unsure.

  ‘That’s right,’ Stratton said as he looked at both ends of the corridor, checking to see they were alone.

  Gabriel opened the door and
Stratton walked into the simply decorated room which was barely large enough to allow anyone to move around the double bed without scraping the walls. It had a small television on a swivel bracket bolted into a corner close to the ceiling, a dresser with an electric kettle, two cups and tea and coffee and a tidy en-suite bathroom with a bath, sink and toilet ergonomically fitted into the most confined of spaces. Stratton stood in the gap between the room entrance and the bathroom as Gabriel closed the door behind him, locked it and remained standing, apparently not quite finished with his examination of Stratton.

  ‘Everything okay?’ Stratton asked, forcing a smile, doing a bit of inspecting himself. Gabriel was conservatively dressed in a wool jacket, striped shirt, plain tie, wool trousers with a razor crease and brown brogues. He looked like a schoolteacher. His build suggested he had been athletic in his younger days but not any more. Everything about him, the cut of his cloth, hair, fingernails and neatness of his belongings suggested he was meticulous. He looked tired though, his eyes red and sunken, the lids blinking lazily indicating a thirst for sleep, and they flickered in harmony with his gravel voice as if sensitive to the coarseness of it.

  ‘You’re British military intelligence?’ Gabriel said, more a statement of doubt than a question.

  ‘And you’re Gabriel,’ Stratton said, ignoring the attitude and putting it down to paranoia. ‘You settled in all right?’ Stratton asked, practising his polite tone. ‘How was your trip?’

  ‘Tiring. I don’t like travelling.’

  ‘London can be a zoo.’

  ‘I’ve been here before,’ Gabriel said. ‘I’m not much of a fan . . . Excuse me,’ he said, looking Stratton in the eye as he took a pace towards him. Stratton moved aside and Gabriel walked past and into the bathroom where he packed his toothbrush, toothpaste, soap and comb into his ablutions bag, and walked back into the bedroom to the window where he collected more of his personal effects and placed them into a small holdall.