The Operative

by Falconer, Duncan

  Duka knew nothing about the man he was following nor did he care. His mission that day was to obtain an address for the target and nothing else. He watched his man enter the building and a few minutes later saw a figure on the fourth floor heading along a corridor. He did not need to identify the apartment number. That would have been an unwise move during the first tailing of a new target and besides, Duka knew how Cano operated. As long as he had the building pinpointed there were many ways of finding out what else he needed to know.

  As the sun set beyond the ocean, Duka left his position leaning against the rails that lined the cliffs of the Santa Monica park opposite the pink towers. He walked to a small car park across the road where he had left his van. Once inside the vehicle he called Cano to give him the coded details of the day. Then he started the engine, pulled out into the traffic and headed for that first shot of fermented grain that would be waiting for him in his favourite watering hole downtown.

  20

  Hobart was sitting back in his office chair, having read the last of his emails for that day. He was thinking about the Leka-Ardian killings as he had done pretty much continuously since hearing Phil’s forensic revel ations.

  The main problem that Hobart was having was his inability to decide where to begin searching for clues to the identity of those behind the murders. Phil had given him a list of probable users of the explosive material, with NSA organisations at the top – an enormous investigative task on its own. Then there were the CIA, the DIA, several other intel ligence groups that had anti-terrorist units, and half a dozen or so special forces groups that also used the stuff. Add to that the red tape he would have to wade through just to talk to any of those highly confidential, secret and top-secret organisations and the task became painful even to contemplate: Hobart would not be able to delegate much of the liaison work to his assistant due to the seriousness of the matter.

  And then, of course, whoever the guilty party was could hogtie any investigation with an arsenal of delaying devices, pleading national security and the like. Frankly, the odds against finding something and then being able to prove it were incalculable. What Hobart needed was a big fat clue to fall right out of the sky and land on his desk. Since he didn’t believe in miracles he was pretty stumped.

  Hobart got to his feet and looked out over the city as the last light faded. He hated this time of day. As if the stress of the job wasn’t enough, he had to leave the office and join that mess of slow-moving traffic for at least an hour before he could pull out of it and into his quiet little backstreet in Van Nuys in the valley. If he was a drinking man he would wait out the worst of the traffic in one of the many bars up the street that would be filled with like-minded people at that time of day. But he wasn’t.

  A buzzer sounded and a voice came over a small intercom beside Hobart’s computer monitor. ‘Sir?’ It was Hendrickson.

  Hobart turned back to his desk and pushed a button on the intercom. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you have a minute to come look at something?’

  ‘What’s it about?’

  ‘What you asked me to do, sir. I found something that doesn’t fit.’

  Hobart didn’t reply. He walked out of his office, down the corridor, and into the agent pool a couple of doors away.

  ‘What is it?’ Hobart said as he stopped beside Hendrickson’s desk by the window. Hendrickson was staring at his computer monitor. He sat up straight and started tapping on the keyboard, bringing up several windows.

  ‘Well, sir. I’ve been going over Leka Bufi and Ardian Cano’s careers and, well, there’s really nothing—’

  ‘You know I hate long introductions, Hendrickson. You’re a talented researcher, which is why you work for me. But can you edit it a little.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. The most recent incident that connects the two is the Sally Penton murder – which we believe was coincidence, a wrong-place-wrong-time scenario. But since we’re looking for the unobvi ous … Turns out her husband was British special forces. Our people in London were pretty helpful with information about him and sent me this one page.’

  Something stirred in Hobart and he leaned on the desk to look at Jack Penton’s photograph on the monitor. He had not briefed Hendrickson on Phil’s forensics report yet and so the mention of special forces had hooked him.

  ‘I thought I was onto something until I found out that he died on active service in Iraq nearly a month ago. I continued digging through his wife’s – widow’s – file and noticed that she made a phone call on her cellphone just before she died. It was to a UK cellphone in Austria – a man called John Stratton. I went back to my people in London and they just got back to me. All access to Stratton is denied. When they enquired further they were directed to the Brit Ministry of Defence where they ran into a wall. He’s SIS, sir. The British Secret Intelligence Service.’

  Hobart pondered the information for a moment until he could mentally taste it. ‘Get London to push harder. At least find out where he is.’

  ‘He’s here, sir. Or at least he was. He arrived in town the day after Sally Penton was killed.’

  Hobart stood up and exhaled softly. He knew better than to jump to conclusions but despite the rule of never pinning the crime on the first person whom the hat fits something deep inside him was shouting that this was his man. Hobart’s immediate feeling was relief that at least it wasn’t an American outfit behind the killings. Suddenly it didn’t seem like such a serious matter. It was bad in many ways – a Brit SIS operative carrying out a personal revenge operation on US soil – but it wasn’t as big a deal as it had seemed that morning. He was hoping that the Brit was guilty and that it was not too good to be true.

  ‘Okay,’ Hobart said, getting down to business and sounding more like his old self than he had for a long time. ‘Airports, car-hire companies, hotels, credit cards and cash machines. Let’s find out if he’s still in this country. And if he is, let’s haul him in.’

  Hobart then thought about something that Phil had said to him which now impressed him with its approp riateness. ‘A long elevator ride underground,’ he said softly.

  ‘What was that, sir?’ his assistant asked.

  ‘Good work, Hendrickson. You’ve earned your weekend off.’

  Hendrickson wanted to say something sarcastic but accepted the compliment with a smile. ‘Do you want me to get onto it now, sir?’

  ‘No. Give it to Gomez. You get on home.’

  Hobart walked out of the office and back along the corridor to pick up his jacket and head home. He was feeling altogether better about things and the drive might not be so stressful after all. As he stepped into the office another thought gave him pause. He had planned to visit Skender in the morning to discuss a few things and wondered if he should warn him that there was an outside chance the person who had targeted Leka and Ardian might want revenge against him too. The possibility was a long shot since Skender had had nothing to do with the woman’s death but Hobart’s job was about covering every angle. On the other hand, he couldn’t help smiling at the thought of this Stratton guy bumping off Skender. But, much as he hated the Albanian, at the end of the day he had a job to do and if it meant keeping that piece of scum alive then so be it. He would get across to Skender’s office first thing in the morning.

  As Hobart pulled his jacket on a couple more things suddenly niggled him. First, where had this Brit got the explosives from? He couldn’t have known he was going to avenge Sally Penton’s murder before he arrived in LA since he didn’t know the details of her death. That meant he’d got the explosives while in the US. Second, where had he got the information about Leka and Ardian since the cops hadn’t given it to him? If this Stratton guy was SIS he was well connected and the answers to both questions could well point in some intriguing directions. Stratton had to have a relationship with someone in US intelligence or the military. That could be interesting.

  Hobart was in the doorway of his office when yet another thought stopped him in his tr
acks. If he was going to warn Skender he should do it sooner rather than later.

  He went back to his desk, flicked through a Rolodex and dialled a number on his phone. A second later it picked up. ‘Is Skender there?’ Hobart said.

  ‘Who is this, please?’ a female voice asked.

  ‘Hobart. FBI.’

  ‘One minute, please.’

  Hobart looked out of his window while he waited with the phone to his ear. The traffic had not abated in the slightest.

  ‘I’m afraid Mr Skender is busy at the moment,’ the female voice said.

  ‘Is that right,’ Hobart said and put the phone down. Everything about the Albanian annoyed Hobart at the best of times but having him ignore a call from the Bureau made the FBI man’s blood pressure rise.

  He walked into the corridor, slamming the door of his office behind him. Five minutes later he was driving out of the car park, through the backstreets and towards Culver City. Traffic was heavy even on the smaller side streets but half an hour later Hobart arrived outside Skender’s new building. It was floodlit so that workers could carry on throughout the night. He walked past the sentry box, ignoring calls from the perplexed security guard to show him some ID, and strode across the marble concourse and in through the entrance.

  Cano was in the lobby, talking with a couple of his apes, as Hobart walked in followed by the security guard.

  ‘Take me up to your boss,’ Hobart ordered Cano.

  ‘He just walked right on in, Mr Vleshek,’ the security guard whined. ‘Wouldn’t show me no ID or nothin’.’

  ‘Go back to your gate,’ Cano said to the security guard, his stare fixed contemptuously on Hobart. ‘Mr Skender expecting you?’

  ‘I don’t give a damn,’ Hobart said looking around the lobby as if Cano himself was of little importance. ‘Look, if he prefers he can come down to my office. Tonight, that is. And that’s not a request, it’s a demand.’

  Cano smirked as if Hobart’s demand was meaningless.

  ‘Don’t fuck around with me, Vleshek. Your boss is the one with friends in high places. No one said anything about you and I don’t like you.’

  Cano maintained his look of contempt as he pulled a phone from his pocket and punched in a number. The call was picked up after a few seconds. ‘Hobart’s here – in the lobby.’

  There was a pause while he listened.

  ‘He’s acting pretty tough today,’ Cano answered. Then he said ‘Okay,’ taking the phone away from his ear and pointing towards an open elevator. Hobart walked towards it and stepped inside, followed by Cano who placed a key-card in a slot and hit the penthouse button. Seconds later they were ascending fast.

  They stood in silence together for a few seconds. Then Hobart glanced at Cano. ‘How’s the eye?’ he asked.

  Cano did not answer because he realised that Hobart had said it for no other reason than to poke fun at him.

  Hobart knew that it was a childish comment but he enjoyed making it nonetheless. The fact was that these people had him over a barrel as long as his orders from on high were to treat them with kid gloves. He found it extremely frustrating.

  The top-floor doors opened and Hobart followed Cano into the curved corridor, past the conference room behind its glass wall and on to a pair of large, elaborate doors. Cano pushed through them without knocking to reveal Skender wearing a white silk shirt open to his chest, white slacks and white leather loafers and seated in an armchair beside a large ornate oak desk as he perused a file. He took off a pair of reading glasses as he looked up and smiled as Hobart stopped in the centre of the room, facing him, Cano remaining by the doors.

  ‘Well, General Hobart. The only honest Fed on the West Coast. So what do you think of my new building?’

  Hobart looked around the room, nodding as if impressed. Two of the walls displayed a pair of modern and no doubt expensive abstract paintings and what appeared to be pieces of ancient pottery on stands were dotted around among the mixture of modern and antique furnishings. The ceiling’s planes were angular, forming a point at one side of the room, the pinnacle of the pyramid. It was different.

  ‘Interesting,’ Hobart said. ‘Who was the architect? Frank Lloyd Wrong?’

  Skender grinned. ‘Did you know, this is the first major construction of its size in this city to be built on time and under budget?’

  ‘Yeah – I heard what happened to contractors who didn’t turn up on time.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. Do you, Ivor?’

  Cano shook his head slowly.

  ‘Opening ceremony’s in a week,’ Skender continued. ‘And you and Mrs Hobart are invited.’

  ‘Can’t wait. Are Mr and Mrs Bin Laden invited too?’

  ‘I’m full of surprises, Hobart. You never know.’

  ‘Save your horse crap for the people who eat it. This isn’t a social call. I’m here to tell you that your time’s running out. You’d better start shaking that tree of yours a little harder. Those two traffickers you turned over to us, Bavero and Puta, were your meal ticket for last month. I want someone new and bigger for this month. And don’t worry. Unlike those prick friends of yours in the administration I’m not expecting you to hand over Bin Laden. We both know you probably have more chance of delivering the Man in the Moon. While I remember, here’s a to-do item for you to slip under a fridge magnet. I want something by the end of this week or the opening ceremony is about all you’ll ever see of this place. I’ll give you a lead. Over a ton of heroin hit the East Coast last month, ferried in by mules from Sicily. That’s an Albanian trade route. I want to close it down. That’ll buy you next month’s freedom. And you should know that I’m going to keep on your back either until you’re all dried up or until your friends tear you apart to stop themselves ending up on your list. And another thing. The amnesty honeymoon’s over. The next employee of yours who steps out of line I’m putting them in chains. Have I made myself clear?’

  Skender looked totally unperturbed as he picked a speck of fluff from his shirt, got to his feet and placed the file on his desk. He put his hands in his pockets and strolled over to Hobart, stopping a few feet in front of him. He stifled a yawn as he removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. ‘Sorry. You were sending me to sleep.’

  Skender put his glasses in his pocket and took a long look at Hobart. ‘You don’t live in the real world, Hobart. You think you do but you don’t. You know, we have this little bird in Albania, lives in the mountains, a bit like your road runner. It’s like a little chicken but it ain’t good to eat. But this little bird makes a lot of noise all the time. It walks around screaming and screeching like it’s in charge of everything. It thinks it’s more important than it is. People usually leave it alone because it’s kind of funny, the way it struts around. But if one comes into your house and starts squawking, which they sometimes do, well, that can be too much and there’s only one way to shut them up.’

  ‘Is that supposed to be a threat?’

  ‘It’s just a story, Hobart. A little slice of life in Albania. It’s the way we live. We’ll never change. But you’re too stupid to see that.’

  ‘I like it when people think I’m stupid. It feels so much better when I’m waving goodbye to them as they walk down that dark tunnel to the cell at the end of it.’ Hobart started to walk away, then thought of something else. ‘Oh, one more small thing. The guy who killed Leka Bufi and Ardian Cano. He may be coming after you. I’m not telling you out of any concern for you. It’s just that I want to be the one who puts you away, not him. Do I need your card to go down in the elevator?’ he asked Cano.

  Cano shook his head.

  ‘I’ll see myself out,’ Hobart said as he walked on, pausing in the doorway to look around the room. ‘I wonder what we’ll do with this building when you’re gone – it’ll become state property, you know.’ Hobart smiled and headed along the corridor to the elevator.

  Skender gave a long sigh and shook his head. ‘He’s annoying, isn’t he?’ he said as he w
ent back to his desk, sat behind it and stared at the ceiling in thought. ‘Did you find out anything more about this Englishman – what was his name?’

  ‘Stratton. We have the building he lives in. An apartment block in Santa Monica.’

  ‘How would you do it?’

  ‘Bring in a team from out of town. There’ll be no connection to us.’

  Skender pondered it further as he looked at Cano. ‘You can have him. Just make sure it’s clean.’

  Cano nodded and left the room.

  Skender swivelled in his chair to face the glass window. His life had been about staying one step ahead. The fact that he was still alive was proof of that for in his game to lose meant to die. Hobart and the FBI could not even begin to match the nemeses he’d faced down in his sixty years but neither could they be ignored. Skender wasn’t worried about ending up in any jail. He would leave the USA long before that became even a remote possibility. But he enjoyed his life in America, his home in the hills overlooking the city, his new office building and his plans to create a legitimate empire. He needed time and would find another little fish to throw to them. The Sicilian connection was out of the question since he controlled that himself but there were other things he could offer.

  One thing was for sure: Skender would not allow Hobart or the Feds to dictate to him. They would accept what he gave them and in his own good time, not theirs. Meanwhile he would cultivate his contacts among the higher echelons of American bureaucracy. Those were the ones who would one day tell the Bureau that Skender had done enough and proved himself worthy to join their community. Money was everything and if you could not buy the Hobarts of this world or the people above them you kept going higher still until you found someone you could buy. It was as simple as that and it was why Skender could sleep peacefully at night.