‘You did a good job, Seaton,’ Hobart said to him, straightening his back and feeling suddenly determined.
‘You need me any more?’ Seaton asked, looking like a lost child.
Hobart still wondered what kind of a man Seaton was, unable to figure him out. Was he a loyal friend doing the right thing, or was he a career man looking to keep his record clean? ‘Why don’t you stick around?’ Hobart decided. ‘This show ain’t over yet.’
‘What more is there?’ Seaton asked.
‘You forgotten about the kid?’ Hobart asked as he walked past him.
Seaton wanted to say that he’d done the job he was sent here to do but he chose to keep his mouth shut. There was no point. He might as well play this one out and keep Hobart happy.
A police lock-up van pulled up. Seaton watched as Stratton was led out of the squad car and into the back of it, along with a police officer. Hendrickson handed his weapon over to one of the officers and climbed inside.
‘Hey. What about my waiter suit?’ Grant complained as he watched the police officer lock up the back of the van. ‘I gotta go to work.’
‘Can it,’ Hobart’s driver said.
Grant gave up with a philosophical sigh. ‘So who’d he photograph that everyone’s so pissed off about?’
The driver gave him a quizzical look as the lock-up van pulled away.
34
Stratton sat chained to a bench that ran the length of the lockup van as it bumped and creaked along, his hands cuffed in front of him, Hendrickson and a police officer on the bench opposite. He could not believe that it was over, not like this. He had been a move away from holding Skender’s building to ransom, the only chance he’d had of getting Josh back alive, and now the boy was doomed. There hadn’t even been a fight.
Stratton didn’t even want to think about Jack and Sally who were probably looking down on him at that moment with untold disappointment – although they could never be as angry with him as he was with himself. He looked around, at the two men opposite, the chains, the iron box they rode along in with its door bolted from the outside, the key with the driver. If there was a way out of this he could not see it. Ten, fifteen, twenty minutes and he would arrive at the Federal lock-up where his life behind bars would begin. This was not how he had expected to end his career. Dead, perhaps, at the hands of crazed terrorists in some godforsaken corner of the world. That would have been acceptable, though he would of course have fought to stay alive. But at that moment this seemed far worse than dying. At least if he was dead he would not be tormented by feelings of guilt and failure.
He lowered his head into his hands and looked down at his feet, the clean metal floor beneath them. Then his eyes focused on something on the side of his boot. It was a tiny piece of some white substance, poking out of the tread of his sole. He stopped breathing while he willed it to be what he hoped and not a piece of chewing gum.
Stratton looked up at Hendrickson and the police officer who were staring ahead at nothing. He sat back, crossed his legs, looked away and let a hand wander to his heel where he could feel the substance, a glance revealing that it ran into the tread for an inch or so. He picked a tiny piece off and casually wiped his nose while sniffing it. It was indeed RDX and must have got stuck there while he’d been in the mine. Interestingly, RDX was sensitive but not overly so. For instance, he would have had to jump off a three-storey building and land directly on his heel to detonate it. The fall would probably have killed him anyway.
He sat for a moment, the tumblers of his mind turning through the possibilities for its use. A plan quickly fell into place. Without further hesitation he popped the tiny fragment of RDX into his mouth, swallowed it and then sat back to wait. He remembered reading somewhere that RDX was not lethal if ingested in small amounts and had symptoms similar to those produced by cordite, which had on occasion been used by soldiers in the past who had wanted to avoid duty. He only hoped that his memory served him correctly and that he had taken a small enough dosage. Within a few seconds the cramps began and he started to feel hot and feverish. But he kept himself from throwing up for as long as possible to make the most of it. The pain grew steadily worse and the bile began to rise in his throat as his breathing quickened and his hands began to shake.
The police officer was the first to notice Stratton’s distress but did nothing initially. In his line of work he had seen it all, from prisoners feigning injury to actual suicide. It was his experience that some would do anything to avoid going to jail but on the other hand he had a responsibility to ensure their safety and well-being. Even if a prisoner had been sentenced to death it was his duty to save him so that he could suffer his legal fate. Making sure that a prisoner stayed alive technically took precedence over his responsibility to keep them incarcerated.
Stratton started to shudder as his eyes rolled up into his head and a white, frothy mucus oozed from his mouth.
‘Holy shit,’ the officer said, lunging forward as Hendrickson looked to see Stratton lean over and moan.
‘He’s gone white as a sheet,’ the officer said, grabbing hold of Stratton.
Hendrickson jumped to his side as Stratton began to shake violently.
‘What’s wrong with him?’ Hendrickson asked, out of his depth with a medical emergency and at a loss about what to do.
‘He’s having a heart attack, I think,’ the officer said. ‘We’ve got to get him on his back.’
Stratton’s convulsions grew worse as he began to vomit.
‘Get him outta the cuffs,’ the officer said.
‘Should we do that?’ Hendrickson asked.
‘A prisoner’s first right is to life. Get him outta the chains,’ the officer said as he dug a key from a pocket and struggled to get it into the padlock of the restrainers.
Hendrickson unlocked Stratton’s handcuffs as the officer pulled away the chains that secured him to the bench. The van rattled violently as it travelled over some rough road and as Stratton felt his bonds loosen he suddenly lashed out, his first blow to the officer’s throat sending him across the van onto the opposite bench. Then he grabbed Hendrickson by the hair and rammed his fist up into his jugular, cutting off the blood supply for a second. Sputum ran out of Stratton’s mouth uncontrollably as he fought the severe stomach cramps to channel his strength into his limbs, driven by the all-consuming incentive that this was his last chance.
Hendrickson made an effort to reach for Stratton who slammed him in the jaw, almost knocking him out. Then Stratton grabbed the handcuffs, threw Hendrickson over onto his front, cuffed his hands behind his back, ripped off his tie and secured the police officer’s hands in a similar manner. Stratton’s gaze flicked up to the small hatch into the driver’s compartment. He prayed it would not open as he dragged both men off the bench to the floor on their bellies. He put his mouth close to their ears and dangled Hendrickson’s keys in front of their eyes.
‘Either of you struggle or shout out, so help me I’ll gouge your eyes out before this van comes to a stop. Do you hear me? Ask yourself if being blind for the rest of your life is worth it.’
Both men blinked wildly, still struggling to breathe properly, their throats swollen due to the blows. But they understood Stratton and, more importantly, believed him.
Stratton raised the bench, pushed the two men beneath it and let the bench come down on them, partly to keep them immobile but mostly to help protect them from the next phase of the escape.
He worked quickly as the van turned down the slip road onto a freeway and joined the slow-crawling mass of traffic as it snaked along the four-lane road towards the towering city centre several miles away. He dug the rest of the RDX out of the tread of his boot with the end of the key, pausing to control a wave of nausea before throwing up again and wiping his mouth on his sleeve. He pressed the explosive into a cube the size of a dice.
Stratton got to his feet and dismantled part of the other bench until he was holding half the sitting section that had chains hanging fro
m its centre. Taking the central chain he lifted its free end to the small vent in the ceiling and threaded it past one of the bars. Then he secured it. He aimed the end of the bench at the door and released it, letting it dangle from the ceiling. The end slowly turned away from the door like a compass needle so he took a second chain and secured that to another bar in the roof vent. He released the bench again and this time it swung back and forth like an ancient battering ram, its end staying true and not turning away from the door.
As a final test Stratton pulled the bench back away from the door and then released it so that it swung forward and up. It was a bit noisy when it struck the door and Stratton quickly glanced around to see if the driver’s hatch might open. It didn’t. He went to the door and inspected the mark where the bench had struck it. It was near the lock. Deciding that it would have to do, he took the small piece of RDX, spat some mucus on it and pushed it over the mark, pressing it home until it stuck.
Hendrickson strained to look over his shoulder at whatever Stratton was doing. All he could make out was the improvised battering ram, which he did not think would be enough to break open the door.
Stratton got down on his knees, checked the floor area beneath the remaining section of bench where he would take refuge and looked to make sure that the two men were secure beneath their bench. Hendrickson stared back at him.
‘I’d cover your face if I were you,’ Stratton said.
Stratton pulled the battering ram all the way back and then threw it forward while at the same time diving for cover. He hit the floor at the same instant as the bench struck the RDX. The resulting explosion rocked the vehicle and filled it with smoke – and with daylight as the doors blew open.
Stratton immediately rolled onto his knees and cursed as he hit the swinging bench with the side of his head. He got to his feet just as the driver slammed on the brakes, sending him hard into the front of the van beside the hatch, which then opened. Stratton looked at the back of the van as the smoke quickly cleared and launched himself out.
He flew from the van, landing hard on the bonnet of a car which had stopped close behind. A family inside, frozen in horror, stared at him. He felt the blood trickling down the side of his head where he’d hit the bench, rolled off onto the road and started to run, aware that the next immediate danger might be shots from the two officers in the front of the van.
Stratton did not look back as he ran faster, dodging between the lines of cars that had now stopped. No one dared to challenge the desperate-looking indiv idual who had emerged from the exploding doors of a police van. One officer who jumped out of the van’s front did bring his gun up on aim but as Stratton weaved between the cars he decided against the risk of hitting a civilian. At the same time he wrote off any thought of giving chase to the guy who was running as if he was on fire and whom the cop was clearly never going to catch.
35
Hobart and two police officers approached the entrance to Skender’s building, which had returned to some form of normality as staff continued to prepare for the big event. Hobart had taken a moment in the square to make some calls and confirm any initial contact that had been made to set wheels in motion to evacuate Skender’s business centre, set up a police cordon and bring in EOD teams. He also checked that the relevant utilities such as power, gas and water which might need to be shut down had been notified, as well as emergency services like hospitals. The two police officers had arrived in response to the alarms that had since been switched off and Hobart asked them to accompany him to the building. As he walked across the concourse he paused to look at the statue of Skender, shook his head, and carried on to the entrance.
Klodi was in charge of an enhanced search team at the main doors. When he saw Hobart and the cops approach he stepped forward to meet them.
‘Hey, officers, can I help you?’
Hobart ignored the large thug with the bandaged hand and forced smile to talk to a woman who appeared to be a senior member of the event staff. ‘Who’s in charge here? I’m talking about the catering and everything?’
‘That would be Mr Mathews,’ the woman said, look ing at Hobart and the two cops either side of him.
‘And where would I find Mr Mathews?’ Hobart asked, like a schoolteacher talking to a child.
‘He’s inside,’ she said.
‘Get him out here – now, please,’ Hobart said.
As the woman walked inside Hobart turned to face Klodi, trying hard not to show an anger that was gradually bubbling up inside him. He was expecting to receive resistance from Skender and was getting ready to meet it head on. ‘I want to see Skender.’
‘Mr Skender is a little busy right now,’ Klodi said with a cocky smile, wiping his nose with his bandaged hand. ‘We got an openin’ ceremony today.’
‘I didn’t ask to see him. I said I wanted to see him which is the same as saying I’m going to see him. Do you understand me?’ Hobart said.
‘Do you wanna hold on a moment? He could be anywhere in the building.’
‘You’ve got one minute and then I’m looking for him myself.’
Klodi moved to one side and raised his radio to his mouth. ‘Mr Vleshek. This is Klodi at the front door.’
‘What is it?’ Cano’s voice crackled over the radio.
‘That FBI guy’s down here. Says he wants to see Mr Skender.’
‘Tell him to come back in an hour when the bar’s open.’
Hobart was listening and bit his lip. He was here to kick some Albanian butt but he needed to save himself for the top man. ‘You got thirty seconds,’ Hobart said.
‘You better get down here,’ Klodi said into the radio. ‘I don’t think he’s here on a social visit.’
There was a pause, then the voice came back. ‘I’m on my way.’
‘He’s on his way,’ Klodi repeated, maintaining his smile.
A man stepped through the doors with the female event-staff member in tow and presented himself to the police officers. ‘I’m Mr Mathews, the event manager. Can I help you?’ he asked with a smile.
Hobart took out his badge and showed it to the man. ‘I’m head of the FBI in California. Does that mean anything to you?’
‘Well, yes – quite a lot,’ the man said, his smile waning a little at the edges. He was beginning to look a little nervous.
‘You’re right. It does mean a lot. I’m giving you five minutes to evacuate this building and move all your people and transport out of here. Is that clear?’
‘Five minutes?’ the man said, looking deeply perplexed.
‘If your vans aren’t out of here by –’ Hobart checked his watch ‘– twelve minutes past the hour you’ll be cited for obstruction of justice, your vehicles will be impounded and could be held for months and I doubt very much whether your business licence will be renewed. Do you understand everything I’ve just said?’
‘I do, sir,’ the man said as he turned on his heel and pushed his way back into the building.
Hobart watched him go. Then he faced Klodi who was standing between him and the front doors. ‘You’re in my way,’ he said.
Klodi stepped aside in the face of a superior power. Hobart and the officers marched in.
As they walked into the lobby beneath the massive chandelier Cano was coming down the broad stairs at the other side of the elevators. As he stepped onto the marble floor it became evident to him by the excited activities of the event staff that something was happening about which he was unaware.
‘Where’s Skender?’ Hobart asked as Cano approached.
‘What’s going on?’ Cano asked, ignoring Hobart’s question and looking past him as several event-staff personnel hurried from the ballroom and out through the main doors.
Hobart hated being ignored and this place was sorely trying his patience. But he stuck by his plan and held on to his temper, though with increasing difficulty. ‘You want to know what’s happening?’ he asked, forcing a smile. ‘I’m closing down your building, your opening ceremony, ever
ything. And now you listen to me. You speak to me one more time like I’m the bellhop and I’ll run you downtown so fast your feet won’t touch the ground. Now take me to Skender!’ he shouted.
Cano remained cool as ice. Hobart’s efforts to impress him were as effective as hail on armour. ‘One moment,’ Cano said, holding up a finger as he took his cellphone from his pocket and stepped to one side to use it.
Hobart gritted his teeth as he looked at one of the cops. Cano spoke quietly on his phone for a few seconds before pocketing it and walking to the elevator. ‘Mr Skender will see you,’ he said as he pushed a call button.
Hobart turned his back on Cano who was just beyond earshot and talked to the cops. ‘Your chief is on his way. This is an emergency situation. We have a suspected bomb in the building. Skender’s bodyguards can stay for the time being but I want everyone else out of here. That includes security staff, administrators, janitors, cooks and busboys, everyone. Got it?’
The cops looked at each other and nodded.
‘Go to it,’ Hobart said before turning to head for the elevator. ‘Lead on, Mr Vleshek,’ he said, making a meal out of the name.
Cano walked inside and Hobart joined him. The elevator doors closed. Cano thought he could sense that Hobart was unusually confident about something, then dismissed it as one of the FBI man’s little moments of power.
The Operative Page 37
