‘But you don’t think so.’
‘We were so god-awful I thought Henri would twig us on the first leg to the café. But he didn’t, otherwise he wouldn’t have gone there and risk exposing his contact. A half-blind tag would’ve seen the shambles and called him long before he reached the café.’
‘I see,’ Jardene said.
‘It doesn’t look as if Henri used a tag in the past since up until now he’s been followed by just two tails. A tag would’ve seen that.’
‘Right,’ Jardene said, accepting the argument. Then he voiced a notion. ‘Unless the tag had comms problems and couldn’t contact Henri until he was at the café.’
Stratton didn’t say anything. Jardene knew he was reaching. ‘I know it’s far-fetched but it could have been something like that.’
‘And maybe Henri got a call from his doctor and found out he had cancer . . . Keep it simple. Save the complicated hypothesis for your memoirs.’
Jardene flashed him a look, then thought better of telling him not to be so insubordinate. Stratton was right anyway. There were a thousand possibilities. It had to be kept to the basics otherwise the thread might be lost.
‘You don’t think there was a tag, then?’ Jardene asked.
‘No.’
‘Then Henri became suspicious at the café. How?’
Stratton would have loved to know the answer to that. ‘No one did a pass,’ Jardene added. ‘How did he know? . . . ’ he trailed off to himself. He paced the room to help him think but it wasn’t working. He was feeling the pressure and preparing himself for what was to come. He checked his watch. ‘Hank wouldn’t go to the American Embassy if he ran into trouble, would he?’ Jardene asked.
‘He’s not stupid,’ Stratton said. ‘He knew he shouldn’t have been on the ground with us. He did what he did to try and save the day and because he was the only one in the right place who could. It wasn’t his fault. It was mine.’
‘He might still turn up,’ Jardene said, trying once again to believe in his own optimism. ‘Let’s just pray he does.’ He headed for the door. ‘I expect London will call us in soon, before they talk to the French. We’ll get everyone together here first, then I expect we’ll head back as soon as we can and debrief.’
Stratton continued looking out of the window and did not acknowledge he’d heard. Jardene left the room.
Stratton went back over the day once again. He pictured Henri sitting outside the café looking calm and relaxed. Brent saw the waiter come out and speak to him, then moments later Henri followed him back into the café. A few minutes after that Henri flew from the area taking the team with him. Henri must have learned he was blown when he left the patio and went inside. Stratton was certain if he questioned the waiter he’d find out that Henri had received a telephone call. It was the caller who warned Henri he was being followed. Someone who knew about the meeting was watching the café and the surrounding streets. That someone in all probability was the actual contact. Stratton would ask for a trace on the call, as soon as the French were brought in and had calmed down enough to co-operate, but he didn’t expect to gain much from it. Anyone involved at this level of the game would know how to make a ‘safe’ call. A public phone, or a sterile mobile. Stratton had been hard on the team and didn’t in truth think they had been all that bad. They had been bunched and clumsy at times but quick to react if they felt Henri had glanced at them even once. Stratton was the one in the street nearest the café. Him and Hank. They were the ones most likely seen. Whoever it was probably walked straight past them, became suspicious and watched them. Then after seeing them hang about the corner they blew the rendezvous. That had to be it, or something like it.
Stratton felt suddenly drained. But it wasn’t just the day’s mess that was weighing heavily. It was the feeling that something was unravelling inside of him. He was tiring of his life as it was. He felt like bits of him had broken off over the past few years and he didn’t like what was left. The day rattled him on more than one front. The one area in his life he remained confident in was on the ground, on an operation, but today had proved that there were limitations. Perhaps it was being in a team. Operating alone had become his work of choice. There were signs that he had grown much more reclusive. It was only too obvious in the way he reacted to others and the way they acted towards him. Another danger sign was he didn’t care about what his colleagues thought. The work used to have a purpose for him but it had grown blurred over time. The spirit of team ethos he liked to champion in his earlier days appeared to be lost to him now.
He could not remember when it all began to go sour. It wasn’t because of Sally. He had forced that relationship, thinking it was what he wanted or needed. When she left he felt no remorse. He didn’t miss her. Perhaps she knew he wouldn’t, which was why she left. No one knew how he felt, not even Doles who liked to think he knew Stratton so well.The stubborn Jock know-it-all would remain unconvinced no matter what Stratton said.
He wondered where it would end. Perhaps when he no longer had something to aim for. If that was true, what was he aiming for now? The cracks were already starting to appear. For the present at least he could concentrate on finding whoever was responsible for Hank’s abduction. They were tied to those who tried to kidnap Spinks, and the spy was tied to them all. He was the key. There was still more to be had from this day than he had found, he knew that. He had come within inches of the spy and there was a clue out there as to who it was. But then there was a clue to every mystery in the world somewhere. Stratton only cared about this one.
Chapter 14
Aggy sat alone in a restaurant at a small table set for two, with her back to the wall. Positioning herself so that she could watch the door and where no one could come up behind her was a habit she had developed since working over the water. She was feeling uneasy. Not because of the dinner date but about the way she was dressed. She was wearing a silk T-shirt and no bra under a small, tailored leather jacket, and a short skirt, all newly bought that afternoon. She’d given it the once-over in the hall mirror before stepping out of the house but that was while standing still. When she saw her reflection walking towards her in a shop window, she realised how provocative she looked. The T-shirt clung to her breasts, accentuating her nipples as they bounced with a freedom that left nothing to the imagination. Add to that her short lycra skirt riding up her thighs - it was far too feminine a look for her. She didn’t do sexy. If she’d had the time she might have gone back home and changed.
She pulled the sides of the jacket together to cover her breasts but as soon as she released them they fell back open and her breasts poked out again. She couldn’t sit holding her jacket closed all night. She considered not turning up but then dismissed that as cowardice. Bill might get the wrong message. She didn’t know him very well but sensed he was a bit of a tomcat. Her plans were dinner, maybe a bar or club afterwards, but nothing else, not that she was worried about him getting out of line. She was more than capable of taking care of herself.
She sensed a young man at the bar a few feet away looking at her. A quick glance at him and her immediate thought was had she seen him on the street while walking to the restaurant? Perhaps he had followed her. She looked at him again, catching his eye. He smiled and his eyes moved down her body and beneath the table, where he had enough of an angle to see her legs disappearing into her short skirt. She looked away and pressed her knees together. Why do women wear short skirts? she wondered. They’re so impractical.
She checked her watch and looked at the entrance. Bill was late. Tardiness was one of her pet hates. She considered how much quieter Covent Garden was tonight than the last time she had been to this part of town. But then it was summer, when it was daylight until gone ten and filled with tourists and shoppers. Now it was dark and cold. Aggy didn’t mind either, not since joining the detachment. She had changed in many ways over the past year. The most noticeable, according to her mum, was how much she had mellowed. She still had a temper but the j
ob had taught her to keep it holstered. Tolerance was what she had acquired, and not just with people. She had learned to endure harsh conditions such as bad weather and discomfort. As for darkness, being out in it alone, she had developed a weird kind of attraction for it. It had taken several months to actually feel comfortable walking by herself through a wood in the middle of the night. There was something predatory about it that fascinated her. She wondered if she had stirred some primeval instinct. Before the selection course she hadn’t done a night exercise period, never mind alone. The instructors did not take such risks with women recruits; the aim was not to discourage them since so few applied for the job. Her very first night task was not only on her own but on an actual operation to re-supply an observation post in South Armagh. It was her second week on the job and not the kind of task a female operative was normally employed to do. But all the men were otherwise engaged and the ops officer wanted to test her. If she screwed up they would know her limitations.
After being dropped off by car in a quiet country lane she walked a mile and a half across fields and through woodland to the rendezvous point with one of the operatives, who had been in the field for days. On completion of the drop she continued on another memorised route for a mile to a different location, where she met the car again, driven by the ops officer himself, and they returned to the base. The gun she always carried helped her confidence but within a few months she felt she no longer needed even that psychological comfort, although she would go nowhere outside the camp without it. She had learned the key to operating alone at night was to control the imagination and understand the tricks the eyes could play.
As she took another sip of her sparkling water the man at the bar got off his stool and came over. He stopped quite close to her. ‘You waiting for someone then?’ he asked.
She looked up at him tiredly. ‘Yes,’ she said as if the answer was a glaringly obvious one.
‘He late or are you early?’
She wondered why he assumed it was a he.
‘Or is it a woman you’re waiting for?’ he added. ‘Must be. That would make more sense. I mean, I couldn’t imagine a bloke being late for a babe like you.’
She telegraphed her disinterest as best she could but he remained, undeterred. She couldn’t understand why he was unable to sense how much she wanted him to go away. It never failed to surprise her how some men could not read such obvious vibes.
‘If he doesn’t turn up, can I buy you dinner?’
‘I can afford my own dinner,’ she said.
He grinned. ‘Great. Maybe you can buy me dinner then.’
What a tit, she thought. Are there girls who actually tolerate morons like him?
She looked up at him, about to tell him to get lost, when a figure moved in behind the man. It was Bill, with a smirk on his face. The smile was for her but she did not respond. The man suddenly sensed Bill’s presence and looked around. Bill kept the grin while shifting his focus to the man.
‘Hi,’ Bill said. ‘We’ll have a couple of menus. And while you’re at it get us a nice chilled bottle of Sancerre. You do a pretty good ’96 for fifteen quid, or you did a couple months ago.’
‘I’m not a waiter,’ the man said with an attitude, not easily intimidated.
‘I’m sorry,’ Bill said with clear insincerity, looking over the man’s clothes with a critical eye. ‘I thought you were.’
They stared at each other, Bill’s smile unwavering, but his eyes had hardened.
‘Would you mind excusing us then, pal?’ Bill said. Men have different ways of sending out a warning signal. Some use body language, a tensing of the shoulders, clenched fists, a scowl, the placement of feet for balance. Bill’s warning was in his language, but it was not obvious. Those who knew him well enough would advise caution when he used the word ‘pal’ in such a way. The man sensed Bill’s confidence but he was not entirely unfamiliar with situations such as this and was not about to let himself be stepped on. He was pissing on another man’s territory, which disadvantaged him, but he nevertheless stared into Bill’s eyes long enough to retain his machismo honour then looked back at Aggy, winked and walked away.
Bill’s grin spread further across his face now that he finally had her to himself.
‘How’re you doing?’ he said and leaned down to kiss her cheek. But she turned her head to avoid it and all he got was a clumsy kiss of her ear.
It stalled him.‘I’m a naturally affectionate person,’ he said, making an excuse for his forwardness. ‘I kiss everyone hello and goodbye.’ A flush of embarrassment remained in the air between them as he sat down. ‘It’s getting chilly, don’t you think?’
His smile had no effect on her.
‘Bit cold in here too . . . Anything wrong?’
She looked at her watch. The penny dropped and he checked his own.
‘I’m sorry I’m late. I really am. I’m not normally a tardy person. I’ve been rushing around like a March hare all day. So many things to do and people to see, and then the bloody tube train broke down and I was stuck with a dozen people in the tunnel for ten, maybe fifteen minutes.’
‘You’re twenty minutes late,’ she said.
He looked wounded. ‘I swear if you knew the mileage I’d put in today you’d understand. When I finally got home I had the fastest shower I think I’ve ever had in my life. I left my place at the run and practically got dressed on the tube.’
She wasn’t impressed.
‘Look,’ he said, and stuck his feet out and pulled up the ends of his trousers to expose his socks: one black, one brown. ‘Odd socks,’ he exclaimed. ‘And that’s not all. As I was putting my shirt on I was hopping on one leg at the same time pulling on my underpants and I think I put one of my feet through the little slit that’s in the front because they’re god-awful tight and there’s a whole bunch of extra material at the back.’ He leaned over to lower his voice. ‘When I’m walking I think it looks like I’ve shit myself.’
She tried hard not to smile.
‘Please forgive me,’ he pressed his case. ‘It’ll never happen again. Let’s start over.’ He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a small gift-wrapped package, and placed it on the table in front of her. She looked at it and then at him.
‘It’s perfume. Good stuff, so I’m told.’
‘I don’t wear perfume,’ she said.
‘It’s not for you, it’s for your mum,’ he said, adjusting smoothly.
She smiled, catching the adjustment. ‘Thank you.’
‘You look absolutely gorgeous,’ he said and peered around the table to get a full look at her. ‘My God. She has legs too. I’ve never seen you in a skirt before.’
‘I can’t remember the last time I wore one. At school, I think.’
‘I’ll tell you something. If those old fogies back at you-know-where could see you now there might be a few shut faces. I’ve heard the complaints that you don’t look feminine enough. They must be a load of old fruits, that’s all I can say.’
‘They think I’m one.’
‘No way,’ he said, although he had heard that.
‘They call me the dyke.’
‘Well, I think some of those boys have spent far too long cooped up in that little camp with no one but each other for company.’
‘How do you know I’m not?’
‘If you are I’d have to say I’m flattered you think I’m the one who might turn you around. And I’d also have to say you’ve chosen wisely.’
‘You think highly of yourself.’
‘Is it true then? Are you a dyke?’
The waiter came over and handed them menus. ‘Can I get you a drink?’ he asked.
Bill ordered the Sancerre, his favourite Loire, and the waiter left them.
She hadn’t answered and so he pushed on. ‘You don’t care to defend your sexuality either way then?’ he asked.
‘Is that all you’re here for?’
‘Well, I’d be a liar if I didn’t admit it was your beauty
that got me interested in the first place. And yes, I would like to have sex with you before we get married.’
His forwardness fell on stony ground, which was a bit of a blow but his own fault. He had not stuck to his tried and tested theory to first get a woman talking about anything, then find their humour and get them laughing. Only then, when the temperature was right, steer the conversation to sex or a related subject that led to bodily contact. He was in a bit of a hole and had to get back on track. But before that he had to establish whether or not she was a lesbian.
‘I believe that when a man sets eyes on an attractive woman for the first time, and vice versa, the first question that pops into his head is, could this be the woman I want to spend the rest of my life with? Is she the one? Sometimes you get your answer the second she opens her mouth - bad teeth or something like that. But if you’re not put off you continue to get to know her, moment by moment, day by day, until she shows you something about herself that you could not live with. And of course, if you don’t find anything about her that you could not live with, then she’s the one for you.’
Before he got to the end of his little thesis, he felt like he was drowning in his own bullshit. From the way she looked at him, he realised this was not a theory to placate Aggy. ‘Maybe that’s too simple,’ he said, still wallowing. He knew that if he was going to get out of this now it was going to be with her help.
‘Would you still sleep with a woman who didn’t meet your expectations?’ she asked.
‘Yes. Having sex is a completely different thing. Most men would sleep with any woman whether he liked her or not, if she was physically attractive enough.’
‘And if you met a woman who was good enough to spend the rest of your life with and she jumped straight into bed with you, how would that affect her rating?’
‘You mean, before she got to know me?’
‘Yes.’
He grinned. ‘Alas, one of my biggest problems is my frankness and general honesty . . . So, yes, I’d have to say it could adversely affect her qualifications.’
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