The Operative s-3

by Falconer, Duncan

  19

  Stratton stood on a corner a block from the child-protection centre, looking towards its entrance. He checked his watch. He’d been there nearly fifteen minutes and had begun to wonder if a hiccup in the plan had developed, although that was not the reason he felt restless – he’d been feeling that way practically all day. And since he’d arrived at the centre he’d had one of those strange tingles in the back of his neck, a nudge from his senses to tell him that someone was watching him. But the street was empty of any other life. He put it down to a general feeling of stress, a reaction to the murders that he had carried out.

  The sound of a gate clanging shut cut through the silence and he watched Vicky, George and Josh heading down the sidewalk towards him.

  When Josh saw Stratton he ran to him. They hugged each other tightly. George caught up and stopped beside them, looking envious at the affection that Josh was receiving.

  ‘How’s it going, George?’ Stratton asked as he ruffled the other boy’s hair.

  ‘I’m okay,’ came the reply.

  Stratton looked up as Vicky approached. ‘Thanks,’ he said to her.

  She smiled, although it was obvious that she was nervous. ‘Can we get away from here?’ she said, looking over her shoulder. ‘If Myers catches us I’m toast.’

  Stratton led the way across the road. Within minutes they were in a taxi heading across town.

  McDonald’s had been voted, by the boys of course, as the eatery of choice and Vicky directed the driver to one such establishment on Venice Boulevard.

  Traffic was light and they arrived at the location within ten minutes, all alighting while Stratton paid the fare. As they faced the famous fast-food restaurant their faces fell at the sight of boarding over the doors and windows and a sign across the front in large letters announcing that it was ‘closed for renovations’.

  ‘Damn,’ Vicky muttered. ‘It’s closed.’

  ‘Bummer,’ George sighed.

  ‘Now what?’ she said, racking her brains for another location.

  ‘Can’t we just go to another?’ George asked.

  Josh held on to Stratton’s hand, happy just to be out of the centre with him.

  ‘What do you think?’ Stratton asked.

  ‘I can’t think of anywhere close by,’ Vicky said, looking a little frustrated. ‘We’ll have to get another cab, I guess.’

  Stratton looked across the road where a large army-surplus shop occupied the corner, a broad banner across its front stating WE DO WAR!

  ‘You guys got your soldiers with you?’ he asked.

  The boys dug into their pockets to produce a small tank, an armoured car and a couple of dozen troops. Josh also had his little wooden camel.

  ‘Why don’t you go over to the park? I’ll be back in a minute.’

  Vicky glanced at Stratton and he winked at her.

  ‘Okay,’ she sighed. Although she was confident that Stratton had a solution to the problem she could not imagine what it might be. ‘Come on.’

  She took the boys’ hands and headed down the street towards the patch of green that boasted a couple of mature trees. Stratton crossed the road and stepped into the store, ducking through a colourful collection of sleeping bags and rucksacks dangling on display in the entrance. Inside was an Aladdin’s cave of camping and military paraphernalia. Ten minutes later he emerged with a bulging plastic bag.

  Stratton joined the gang who had secured one of the two benches in the small park. Vicky sat patiently while the boys conducted a special forces assault at one end of the bench. Josh was firmly in command of the attacking forces and explained to his enemy commander that he couldn’t shoot Josh’s men scaling the bench legs because they did not have them in their sights below the cliff edge. George insisted that he had special guns that allowed him to shoot around corners – he’d read about them in a magazine somewhere.

  They stopped the battle as soon as Stratton arrived and watched expectantly as he removed the contents of the bag. Vicky was equally curious, noting the slogan on the carrier bag which was the same as that on the banner across the front of the shop.

  Stratton took out several heavy-duty plastic packages, what looked at first glance like a regular can of food but with unusual markings and a ring at either end, and some bottles of Coke and water. He laid them out on the bench.

  ‘What’s that?’ Josh asked.

  ‘Lunch,’ Stratton replied as he examined one of the packs. ‘MREs. Meals ready to eat. Army food.’

  ‘Wow!’ George exclaimed. ‘Real army food?’

  ‘Soldiers’ food for soldiers. Jambalaya or meat loaf in gravy?’ he asked.

  ‘What’s jambalaya?’ George asked.

  ‘You’re about to find out,’ Stratton said, handing him the pack. He gave the meat loaf to Josh. ‘Open up the bags and I’ll show you how to prepare the meal.’

  They pulled the packages open with some difficulty to reveal in each one two slender cardboard containers, a flat plastic bag with a green filament insert at the bottom, a brown plastic spoon and a clear packet containing an assortment of accessories. These included chewing gum, a flat pack of toilet paper, a tiny bottle of Tabasco sauce, and a wrap of wind-proof matches.

  ‘I’ll take those for now,’ Vicky said, swiftly relieving the boys of their accessory bags. She’d spotted the gum and the matches.

  ‘Okay, watch carefully,’ Stratton said as he took George’s package and one of the plastic bags with the green inserts, opened a bottle of water and poured a small amount into the bag. He then removed a silver foil bag from each of the cardboard containers – one labelled rice, the other jambalaya – and inserted them snugly into the bag with water in it. Then he folded the end over to form a seal.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Josh asked.

  ‘Feel the bag,’ Stratton said, holding it out to him.

  Josh gripped the bag and immediately pulled his hand away. ‘Wow! It’s hot!’

  ‘That’s how soldiers heat up their meals in the field.’

  George felt the bag and snatched his hand away too, yelping with surprise.

  Josh took the meat-loaf package and copied what Stratton had done while George gingerly took hold of the top of his bag.

  ‘In five minutes the foil bags’ll be as hot as the outside one.’

  George studied his bag, fascinated by the tiny bubbles that fizzled up from the bottom of it as the chemical reaction between the water and the green filament continued.

  ‘Not too much water,’ Stratton advised as Josh poured some into his bag. ‘That’s enough. Now put in your meat loaf and vegetables.’

  Josh complied and the boys sat back, giving each other cheesy grins and staring at their bags as if they were television screens.

  Vicky picked up the odd-looking can and examined it. ‘Minced beef and vegetables,’ she said, reading the label. ‘This our lunch?’

  ‘I haven’t seen one of those in years,’ Stratton said. ‘It’s a selfheating can. Same principle as the bags but a different method. See the ring on the bottom?’

  Vicky turned it over to reveal a ring at the end of a piece of string whose other end disappeared inside the can.

  ‘Pull it,’ Stratton said.

  Vicky tugged at it but it wouldn’t budge.

  ‘Harder,’ he urged.

  Vicky yanked harder on the string. It gave way as a small rod slid out. The can began to hiss. Vicky gasped and dropped it onto the bench.

  ‘It’s not a bomb,’ Stratton said, grinning as he placed the can in the upright position. ‘There’s a small thermal element running up through the centre. Wait until it stops hissing, then pull back the ring on the top and enjoy.’ With that, he took a plastic spoon from the carrier bag and offered it to her.

  She took it with underwhelming enthusiasm, forced a smile and watched her lunch as it hissed away on the bench.

  Stratton reached back into the bag and took out a couple of protein bars.

  ‘You’re not having an army
meal?’ Vicky asked.

  ‘I’ve had enough MREs to last me a lifetime.’

  Vicky gave him a suspicious look, then carried on watching her can as the hissing reached a climax before at last petering out.

  ‘Go ahead,’ Stratton said. ‘It’s ready.’

  Vicky gingerly picked up the can that was now quite hot and, wrapping the empty carrier bag around it to protect her hand from the heat, took hold of the ring on the top. She pulled it back to reveal a dark brown stew-like substance. ‘Hmm,’ she said sarcastically. ‘Yummy.’

  Stratton grinned. ‘Go ahead. Try it.’

  ‘It looks like dog food.’

  ‘Where’s your sense of adventure?’

  ‘If I was adventurous I’d have been an astronaut.’

  Nevertheless, Vicky took a firm hold of her spoon and gingerly dipped it into the slush as if the can contained a mash of maggots. She scooped out a spoonful and held it up to inspect it. She looked away to see the others watching her: Stratton grinning and the boys chuckling as if she was about to eat a worm.

  She put it to her lips. Then, deciding that she was being pathetic, she placed it in her mouth and chewed. She nodded as if it tasted okay, although her expression indicated otherwise. ‘Not bad,’ she said. ‘And our guys go to war on this stuff ?’

  ‘Not any more. The MREs are new but that’s got to be from the Korean War. Nineteen fifty-two or thenabouts, I reckon.’

  Vicky’s reaction was immediate and involuntary. She spat the food several metres away and grabbed the bottle of water to wash out her mouth as the three boys burst into laughter. She pulled open one of the accessory bags and took out some toilet paper. ‘Apt,’ she mumbled as she wiped her mouth and exhaled as she looked at the grinning faces.

  ‘Am I just here to entertain you three?’ she asked, acting seriously before a genuine grin formed on her face. ‘To be honest, it wasn’t that bad – but I’ll pass on the rest if that’s okay.’

  Stratton offered her one of the protein bars, which she took.

  ‘Can we eat ours now?’ George asked.

  ‘Sure,’ Stratton said.

  The boys opened the heating bags and carefully removed the foil packets of food. Stratton helped George open his and dig out a spoonful. The boy put it in his mouth. ‘It’s good,’ George said, digging out another spoonful by himself.

  Josh tasted his and agreed with George. The boys went right back to their game while they ate.

  ‘Can we go for a walk?’ Vicky asked Stratton.

  ‘Sure,’ he said getting to his feet.

  Stratton unwrapped his protein bar and took a bite out of it as they strolled around the edge of the park. Vicky unwrapped hers but started to speak before eating any.

  ‘I have some good news for you, though you don’t deserve any after trying to poison me.’

  ‘You’re a good sport.’

  She smiled at the compliment, remembering how she used to be and how much her job had changed her over the years. But she pushed the self-pity aside, not wanting to spoil her afternoon. ‘Josh’s move back to the UK is almost finalised,’ she announced. ‘He could be out of here in three or four days.’

  Stratton was pleased to hear it. ‘Will I be able to take him back?’

  ‘Technically, no. He’ll be escorted onto the aircraft and the airline staff will look after him during the flight until he’s met by a social worker at the other end. But I don’t see why you shouldn’t be on the same flight – I’ll let you know the details as soon as I get them.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Vicky smiled at him but couldn’t hold the expression for long. Something sad inside was tugging at her.

  Stratton noticed but didn’t want to ask what was bothering her, suspecting that he knew. ‘Would you like to have dinner with me?’ he asked.

  Her smile returned. ‘Sure. I’d like that very much.’

  ‘So would I,’ he said.

  Vicky looked at Stratton softly and for a second he felt like a kid on his first date. It was a nice feeling although at the same time rather awkward. It seemed silly to think of the young woman and himself in any kind of a relationship but it was impossible not to toy with the idea. He was a man, after all, and she was attractive, intelligent, fun and easy to be with. Still, there was no way he would be able to come back to this town again, not for years, if ever.

  He wondered what it would be like to be with Vicky in England. But as soon as the notion occurred it crumbled under the weight of reasons why it would never work. It was difficult enough to have a relationship with a local girl who had friends and family and probably a job to occupy her while he was away. But it would be selfish, maybe even cruel to bring home someone from a foreign land and expect them to wait around while he disappeared for weeks and often months at a time. Besides, Vicky was married to her job anyway. Still, undeniably, there was something very pleasant about being with her. For one thing, he seemed to be able to forget his troubles when they were together. ‘Oh, Vicky,’ he sighed out loud, not meaning to.

  ‘What?’ she asked.

  ‘Nothing – I was just thinking how very nice it is to know you.’

  ‘I was thinking the same thing.’

  Stratton took her hand in a spontaneous gesture and kissed it. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Why don’t we just forget all the problems we have at the moment, and the world’s too for that matter, and just – well, I don’t know. Forget them.’

  ‘You know something, John Stratton? If there was anyone who could do that for me it would be you.’

  They drew an inch closer together, brushed shoulders and carried on walking, enjoying each other’s company. But in the back of Stratton’s mind he was aware of a certain vulnerability that affection for a woman exposed him to. The feeling of endangerment had been bad enough where Josh was concerned but it was worse now. The uneasy premonition of earlier that morning was suddenly stronger than ever.

  Valon Duka sat in the back of his nondescript blue van, watching Stratton and Vicky through a pair of binoculars from two hundred metres down the street. He had watched the child-protection centre for several hours that morning as instructed by Cano before the man who matched the description he’d been given had arrived on foot.

  Duka was a surveillance expert, having learned his trade while serving ten years in the Sigurimi, the communist Albanian secret police. Now he worked for the syndicate both as an instructor and an operative on the higher-priority tasks. He was in his fifties, smoked close to three packs of cigarettes a day and drank vodka heavily at night. But when it came to his job he was a devoted professional.

  Duka’s techniques were old-school, using little in the way of sophisticated modern technology beyond high-powered optics and, occasionally, listening devices. His stocks-in-trade were patience and thoroughness and his speciality was tailing. He was famous for achieving by himself what others using entire teams could not. His motto was ‘Distance, distance, distance’ and he preached endlessly to his students that the further one could get from one’s target without losing contact the better. But the further back one kept the more easily one lost sight of one’s prey. That was where Duka’s particular genius lay: it was what separated him from others in his profession.

  Duka had the uncanny ability to ‘feel’ where an out-of-sight target had gone, as well as the confidence and patience to persist even when it appeared to everyone else that he had made the wrong choice. His comrades back in the Sigurimi used to say that he could see through walls. When asked how he did it he said he could not explain, describing it as lucky, though in truth he did not know if that was so. It was an extra sense, like the sense of knowing when you are being watched.

  The target this day had been easy enough though Duka could feel that the man had a kind of natural awareness that would not be obvious to an ordinary watcher. It served as a warning to Duka to be doubly cautious with him. But under these circumstances, even if the target had had no doubt that he was being followed Duka would have been v
ery difficult to detect. The city was busy but not too busy, and American towns were the easiest of all to conduct surveillance in because nearly all of them were designed on the Roman grid system with all roads, or most at least, straight and heading north-south or east-west. This meant that the target did not need always to be followed directly and could be tailed along parallel routes. Two adults and two children together made it easier.

  The move back from the park to the child-protection centre was even simpler since it quickly became obvious to Duka that the man and his companions were returning to the start location. He moved ahead of them along a parallel street and was already watching the centre from four blocks away before they arrived. After the man had left the woman and children where he had met them it was easy to keep him in sight while he walked down the street looking for a taxi. After that it was a straight run to the beach while keeping half a dozen vehicles between them. The final task was to house him and then watch the location for some time to establish it was indeed the target’s home.

  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.