The Operative

by Falconer, Duncan

  Stratton crept around the bed to the window and raised himself sufficiently to see over the sill. It was not a good enough position and he moved to the edge of the window, got to his feet and stood back. A brief scan of the nearby rooftops through the blinds revealed a man doing a bad job of concealing himself behind a row of air-conditioning units and looking in Stratton’s direction. The man then put something to his ear, a cellphone perhaps, and moved to the parapet to look below.

  Stratton pulled a chair over to the window and climbed onto it, enabling him to see down into the alleyway. Halfway along it, towards Santa Monica Boulevard, he saw a car with a man standing outside it with his hand to his ear, the rear door open beside him.

  The man climbed back inside the saloon and closed the door. ‘Guy ain’t in his room yet,’ he said to the two men in the front.

  ‘Maybe they’re makin’ out in the corridor,’ said the front passenger.

  ‘They could be startin’ on the living-room floor in the dark. Ain’t you guys got any imagination? They’ll get to the bedroom soon enough,’ suggested the driver.

  The older guy in the back sighed and laid his head back. ‘I hope he don’t take all night. I got reservations at the Tropicana.’

  Stratton stepped down off the chair and considered his options. His most urgent need was to get away from the apartment building and find somewhere to hide for a couple more days. But he could not decide if he should do anything about the would-be assailants first. There was a certain logic in going on the offensive since he might destroy some of those who were after him, thus reducing the extent of any future threat. And if Cano was in the car and Stratton got rid of him the impetus of the vendetta might lessen when the driving force behind it was dead. The next question was what did he have to lose by trying. The answer to that was clearly nothing and it was therefore a risk worth taking. Still, the clock was ticking and he had to make a decision quickly. The pros: Cano had tried to kill him and Vicky and would try again. Offing the bastard was a matter of survival, plain and simple. The cons: there weren’t any – he’d killed two Albanians already and a couple more wouldn’t make a whole lot of difference.

  Stratton kept low as he moved around the bed with the bomb, grabbed a towel from the bathroom and, half-crawling through the living room, returned to the front door and stepped back into the corridor, silently closing the door behind him.

  As he walked towards the elevators he wrapped the box in the towel. Vicky was waiting where he had left her. Before she could utter a word he took her by the arm and led her back along the corridor, past his apartment and towards the fire exit at the end.

  ‘Are you going to tell me what all this is about?’ she asked, sounding a little annoyed.

  ‘No. I can’t Vicky. It’s better you don’t know,’ Stratton said as he took her hand. Together they raced down the stairs.

  Stratton paused at the bottom, opened the door slightly and looked out. If someone was still watching the lighted entrance the chances were that they would not see the darkened emergency-exit door open further down the street. It was a chance that he had to take.

  ‘Go left and keep walking. I’ll catch you up in a few seconds. Go.’

  Stratton practically pushed Vicky out through the door and she immediately started to walk away. He found an empty beer can by the stairs and placed it carefully against the bottom of the door frame. Then he stepped outside, letting the door shut against the can, and hurried down the street.

  He caught Vicky up before she reached the corner and walked around it with her before stopping her with a gentle pressure on her arm. ‘You keep walking up this street and catch the first taxi you see. Please don’t ask me anything now. I’ll call you at the centre tomorrow, okay?’

  She studied him for a moment, not afraid any more but deeply concerned. She glanced at the bundle under his arm, then looked into his eyes again. ‘Okay,’ she finally said. ‘You’ll call me tomorrow?’

  ‘First thing,’ he said.

  Vicky looked very disappointed as she lowered her gaze and walked away from him up the street.

  Stratton watched her get twenty yards ahead before following. As she crossed the road she hailed a taxi and he turned the corner towards Santa Monica Boulevard. He looked back to see her climb in and as it pulled away he broke into a jog.

  Less than a minute later Stratton was standing on the corner at the end of the alleyway, looking at the back of the sedan parked twenty yards away. Pedestrians walked past him on the busy boulevard, no one taking any notice of him. He uncovered the box and attached the wire he had disconnected. He looked up to check that the man on the roof was not visible, then moved quickly at the crouch into the darkened alley along the wall, dropping to his knees as he reached the car. He quickly pushed the bundle underneath it, scurried back to the busy boulevard and broke into a run, back around the block the way he had come. He slowed to a fast walk as he approached the emergency exit of the apartment building. He stepped inside, kicked away the beer can and ran up the stairs, not stopping until he reached his door.

  Stratton stepped inside, paused to take a few deep breaths and turned on the light.

  He removed his jacket, dropped it onto the back of a chair and went into his bedroom. He turned on the light and drew the curtains.

  The cellphone on the seat beside the man in the back of the saloon rang and he picked it up, listened a moment then lowered it as he cut off the caller. He dialled a number. ‘About time,’ he said. ‘Hope he’s gettin’ laid. Nothin’ like going out with a bang is what I always say.’ He punched in the last number then hit the call button.

  The explosion rattled Stratton’s windows. He looked round the side of the bedroom curtain to see the car in flames, its rear end practically destroyed by the detonating fuel tank.

  Stratton dug his pack out of the wardrobe, crammed all his clothes into it, hurried into the bathroom to collect his washing stuff and went back into the living room. He pulled on his jacket, took the CIA explosives pack out of one of the kitchen cabinets and jammed it into his bag, which he now zipped up. Then he left the apartment. He hurried along the corridor back to the emergency stairwell, took the stairs several at a time and stepped out onto the street.

  Stratton walked past the entrance to the alleyway where a crowd had gathered to stare at the burning car, and along Second Street where he searched for a taxi. His plan was to find a cheap hotel in another part of town, wait for Josh’s release and then get the hell out of the country. But one thing was worrying him. Whoever had tried to hit him might know about Josh and possibly about Vicky too. That was a major cause of concern and one for which he had no immediate solution. One possibility was to kidnap Josh from the centre but that option was a minefield. Another was to go to Vicky, except that he did not know where she lived and had no home or cellphone number for her.

  A cab pulled over. As Stratton climbed in he had a terrible feeling that things might be falling apart for him.

  22

  Stratton awoke the following morning in a seedy hotel that had been recommended by the taxi driver. It was in Mar Vista, midway between west and central LA. The area appeared to have more Hispanics and blacks than whites in it, judging by the characters on the street. When Stratton had asked the driver about going further east the man had said that he wouldn’t like to speculate on Stratton’s survival prospects, seeing as he was way too white to be going any further east in that part of town.

  The hotel room, which smelled of tobacco smoke, was basic to say the least. It had a TV, en-suite shower, a cigarette-burned carpet with matching sideboard and the added feature of a vibrating bed – five minutes per quarter, according to the slot machine bolted to the wall above the side table. Stratton slept fitfully and awoke early. After taking a shower he checked the local news station on the TV and heard a report of the exploding car in Santa Monica. It was described as possibly a gang-related fuel-tank sabo -tage but the report gave no other details.

  Stratton h
ad planned to be at the child-protection centre for eight-thirty a.m. but could not find a taxi until he had walked a mile towards the beach. As the cab approached the centre he leaned forward in the back seat to look through the windscreen at a street that was unusually busy. Several of the vehicles were police cars.

  The cab stopped on the corner and Stratton jumped out, paid the driver and hurried to the entrance. But as he was about to open the gate a police officer stopped him.

  ‘Excuse me, sir,’ the officer said, barring his way. ‘Do you have business here?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ Stratton said, playing it cautious while at the same time growing increasingly concerned.

  ‘Then you’ll have wait back over there,’ the officer said, pointing down the sidewalk.

  ‘What’s happened?’ Stratton asked.

  ‘I can’t say, sir. Now you’ll have to step back, please.’

  Stratton looked towards the building entrance to see Vicky walking out of the building while talking to a police officer. He moved along the fence, hoping to catch her eye, willing her to look his way. She stopped at the top of the steps and as the officer wrote something in his notebook she looked up and froze as her gaze met Stratton’s. The officer asked her another question and she had to look away from Stratton while she answered. Then she stared back at him, this time with a strange look in her eyes. The officer said something else to her to which she nodded. Then he walked away.

  Vicky paused uncertainly before heading along the narrow path towards the gate, past the officer on guard and down the sidewalk towards Stratton. As she approached he started to speak. But she cut him off, her voice quiet yet harsh. ‘I need to talk to you,’ she said, moving ahead of him and around the corner before stopping and turning to face him. She looked fraught and strung out, her gaze roving everywhere before settling on him.

  ‘Just tell me one thing first,’ Stratton said, grabbing her shoulder. ‘Is Josh okay?’

  Vicky brusquely shook his hands away, an expression of horror and suspicion on her face. ‘This morning as Dorothy was arriving two men walked in behind her and asked to see him,’ she said, keeping her voice low. ‘They said they were police officers and wanted to ask him some questions. They showed her their badges. I wasn’t here yet, nor was Myers. Dorothy should have waited for one of us but she went and got Josh anyway and they grabbed him.’

  Shortly after she had begun speaking Stratton’s hands had gone to the sides of his head. He closed his eyes, knowing what was coming.

  ‘They punched Dorothy to the floor when she tried to stop them and then they left. The security guard was just arriving and they beat him up on the porch and took his gun. No one saw the car they got into or where they went.’

  Stratton could not quite control himself yet. He walked past Vicky, his fists clenched tightly. When his eyes opened they looked wild but he could say nothing, his mind in turmoil.

  ‘The police asked me to tell them everything about Josh,’ Vicky went on. ‘I told them about you. I … I thought you might have had something to do with it. After last night – I didn’t know what to think. I saw the news this morning – the car that exploded outside your apartment building. It happened just after I left. You had something to do with that, didn’t you? Don’t lie to me, John. I know you did.’

  Stratton didn’t react to her, as if she was no longer there, his mind already focusing on other things: formulating, calculating, planning, seething, hating.

  ‘Stratton!’ Vicky shouted. ‘I’m asking you a question. You know what this is all about, don’t you?’

  Stratton looked away, shaking his head, not in denial of her question but in disbelief at this turn of events. All he could think of was how miserably he had failed the people he loved, not only Josh but his mother and father too. Josh had been taken out of revenge for what Stratton had done. He, John Stratton of the SIS and SBS, should have seen it coming: in a way he had but he’d been too slow to act. He should have gone to the centre last night and taken Josh away himself. But he had been complacent, worried about repercussions that would have been nothing compared to those that would now result from Josh being kidnapped by Skender’s people – it had to be them for there was no one else to suspect. Stratton had gambled with Josh’s life. The little boy had trusted him, innocently placed all his hopes in the one person he had left in the world who could help him – and Stratton had betrayed him with sheer incompetence.

  ‘John! Talk to me, for God’s sake!’

  Stratton finally looked up into Vicky’s tormented eyes. ‘It’s me they want,’ he said.

  ‘Who are “they”?’ she asked, getting frustrated.

  ‘The people who tried to kill me, – us, in fact – last night. You would have died too.’

  Vicky didn’t understand. There was too much information and too little clarification. ‘Why did they take Josh?’

  Stratton was afraid to answer the question. Any answer would sound pathetic. ‘Revenge,’ was all he could say.

  ‘For what?’ she insisted.

  ‘They killed Josh’s mother so I killed them. It’s quite simple, really,’ he said, getting angry himself. ‘It’s probably the stupidest thing I’ve ever done in my life,’ he added.

  Vicky still did not know what to make of it but Stratton’s pain and feelings of guilt were obvious. ‘Why didn’t you come to me, tell me? I might have been able to help.’

  Maybe she was right. Maybe she could have helped him get Josh away if she had really understood the situation. But that was hindsight and Stratton doubted that she would have felt able to aid him last night. It didn’t matter now.

  ‘We have to tell the police,’ Vicky said.

  ‘That won’t help him.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous. If the police know who took him they can get him back.’

  ‘The people who took him don’t care about the police. They own the police.’

  ‘I can’t believe that,’ she said.

  ‘Listen to me,’ Stratton snapped at her. ‘They are Muslim Albanians and will never admit to kidnapping him. They want me and when they have me they’ll kill Josh too. They have no hearts, no pity, no code other than never giving way to anything other than death. It’s how they’ve lived for hundreds of years and nothing will change that. Do you understand?’

  Tears rolled down Vicky’s face as the truth of what he’d said hit home. Some of the tears were for Josh but some were for herself. She had dreamed about this man she thought might be the shining knight in her sad, lonely life and who was going to take her away from all this, and now it was over. He was an enigma and she realised that she had known no more about him the night before – when she had been prepared to give herself to him – than she did now. She began to wonder if he was actually something dark and terrible. There was evidence of that in his eyes, sure enough. Now they were filled with malevolence of an intensity that she had never seen before.

  Vicky did not realise that she had stepped back from Stratton in reaction to a sudden pang of fear, for Josh as well as for herself. ‘Who are you?’ she asked softly.

  It was as if he could read her thoughts. ‘I’m sorry for you,’ Stratton said. He stepped away from her, his thoughts on the police around the corner, wondering whether she would tell them that he was there. ‘I’m Josh’s only chance,’ he told her, hoping that she would believe it, then, disturbingly, doubting it himself.

  Vicky remained where she was, transfixed as he walked away.

  When Stratton was out of sight she lowered her eyes as she felt something inside her crumble away, perhaps her last vestige of hope. Her life’s experiences so far had shown her more than anything else what a rotten world this was. The original idea of devoting herself to healing the lost souls of children had been intended to give some purpose to her life. But after so many years all she was left with were mostly stories of sadness and broken hearts, and instead of building her own sense of self-worth she had become as much a victim as those in her charge. Perhaps that
was why she sympathised with their plight as much as she did: she often felt less like a healing angel and more like the inept leader of a hopelessly lost flock.

  Vicky’s hands came up to her face and she began to cry like a baby.

  23

  Hobart stood at the bedroom window of Stratton’s former Santa Monica apartment, looking down onto the alley where he could see a large scorch mark surrounding a sizeable scoop in the tarmac. During the immediate follow-up investigation the police had found the apartment manager beaten and tied up in his room. When they took the tape from his mouth he immediately started ranting about how two men had arrived in the early evening, enquiring about accommodation. Then they’d suddenly taken him at gun-point to his room and asked about an Englishman named Stratton. As soon as he had provided a key to the apartment they’d tied him up.

  When Stratton’s name hit the police communications network it was automatically filtered out to Hobart’s department as per his request. The occupants of the blown-up sedan had been identified as Chicago hoods and Hobart surmised that Skender had found the identity of Leka and Ardian’s killer and attempted his own revenge.

  Hobart was impressed as well as disturbed with the Albanians’ intelligence-acquisition network that had located Stratton quicker than the FBI had been able to. Skender had obviously brought in outside hitters to cover his involvement but Hobart wondered if the man knew precisely who he was up against. This Stratton guy was obviously skilled, judging by the hits in the court cells and the restaurant, but this counter-hit, whatever it was that he had done exactly, displayed an alertness and initiative under pressure that were, frankly, outstanding. The Chicago goons had obviously come for Stratton and somehow he had turned the tables on them.