The Operative s-3

by Falconer, Duncan

  After a brief run-through of the controls, the assistant helped him attach the mobile platform to the back of the pick-up. Minutes later Stratton was making his way through the side streets that led to Culver City.

  He came to a final stop just short of an intersection that was at one of the corners of what, according to a brand new sign, was now called Skender Square. He climbed out and walked to the corner to take a look.

  The east face of the pyramid shone dazzlingly as it reflected the sun’s morning rays, particularly the golden pinnacle that looked as if it was on fire. The concourse bustled with preparations for the forthcoming ceremonies. Colourful banners connected palm trees and street lamps within the square. Several catering trucks were parked near the entrance with dozens of uniformed staff carrying in chairs, tables, linen and endless trays of food and crates of bottles. The back of a flower truck was open with a jungle of flora outside it waiting to be ferried into the building and a van drawing into the crowded drive bore a sign on its side advertising ‘Event Productions Fireworks’. In among all this and surrounding the building were dozens of security guards and the ever-present suited thugs watching all. Several of them stood on the first-floor balconies that surrounded the building, from where they could survey the scene.

  Stratton walked back to the cab of the pick-up and dug into his pack for the overalls he had bought in the army-surplus store days before. He pulled them on and filled the pockets with long nylon zip-ties. In a side pouch of his pack he dug out bits and pieces of facial disguises from his first day’s shopping in LA and put on a pair of glasses. His face was already darkened by several days’ growth of facial hair. The last item was his baseball cap which he pulled down low over his forehead before walking around to the back of the pick-up, unhitching the cherry-picker and loading all the sandwich boxes onto the mobile platform itself.

  The rig pushed along easily on its four wheels. Stratton waited for a break in the traffic before crossing the intersection to the corner of the square where a metal lamp-post stood, a banner hanging from its top celebrating the opening of LA’s newest and most exciting business centre.

  The platform was sturdy enough to be raised without stabilisers as long as it was moved directly up and down. Stratton climbed aboard and pushed the up lever. The system, which was electrically operated and would last for hours before it needed recharging, jerked into action as the hydraulic pumps hissed and the platform hummed skywards. He toggled the ascent lever on and off, getting used to the controls.

  Stratton took a moment to look at the goings-on from his vantage point. His first observation was that every entrance of the pyramid was guarded by at least three guards and all personnel going into the building – florists, waiters, event staff – were directed to the main entrance only. Here they were searched by hand as well as by metal detector.

  Stratton’s thoughts had never strayed far from Josh since the day he’d arrived in LA. His heart suddenly began to ache as he wondered where the little boy might be at that moment and how he was being treated. If the Albanians’ history was anything to go by they would care little for his well-being and there was no doubt in Stratton’s mind that they aimed to kill him eventually – if, heaven forbid, he was not dead already. Josh was insignificant to them and simply a possible means to an end. Life had no value to those animals other than the pain its loss caused others. He doubted that the boy was being kept in the office building since that would be stupid and Skender was anything but that.

  Stratton had at one time considered attacking Skender’s home, not that he expected Josh to be there either, but had decided against it because the place would be well protected and it would be difficult to guarantee when the man himself would be in. In many ways the office building was an easier target because of its size and the amount of traffic in and out of it. But the main reason for going after it was that it embodied everything Skender was attempting to do in America: his change from drug, arms and human trafficker to legitimate businessman. The edifice was more than a symbol and headquarters of his new empire, it was a homage to himself, to his own vast ego. Most absurdly, it was meant as a snub to the civilised, to those who for centuries had pursued justice, who had fought against wrong for what was plainly right. Stratton was going to hit Skender where he believed it would hurt most and, more importantly, impress upon him that there were lines that he could not cross with impunity, that a single human life had a value, and that, despite a corrupt bureaucratic and judicial system, one man could make a difference.

  Stratton picked up the first sandwich box, removed it from its cardboard container, attached the loose wire to the battery and then, using a couple of the zip-ties, fastened it securely to the top of the lamp-post. He adjusted it so that the face with the ball-bearings packed beneath it was aimed squarely at the building.

  The operation took less than a minute, once he got started. On completion he toggled the descent lever, climbed off the plat-form as it came to a final stop and pushed the cherry-picker along the street, conveniently cleared of cars for the event, to the next lamp-post.

  By the third installation Stratton had the working of the plat-form down pat and was able to increase the speed of attaching the claymores. It took a little over two hours to arm all thirty-two lamp-posts that surrounded the building. He did this without drawing any attention from the several cop cars that passed. Even a security guard who watched him for several minutes as he prepped the lamp-posts in front of the driveway entrance obviously wasn’t suspicious.

  On completion of the final claymore installation Stratton crossed the road back to the pick-up and pushed the platform in to the kerb behind it.

  The pick-up was a concern to him: he needed to take it some-where soon and abandon it. But the next phase of the operation weighed heavier on his mind. His original plan had been to get inside the building as a contractor. The file he had taken from the engineer’s car revealed that a cable company had yet to wire in an audio/visual system and Stratton had contemplated posing as a technician. But that would have meant making an appointment and there was the risk that if his credentials were checked he could find himself in a trap. Stratton was once more contemplating the prospects of postponing the operation until he could come up with a new idea but more delay meant more suffering for Josh. His anxiety level rose in proportion to his frustration.

  A car screeched to a halt behind the platform and Stratton spun around, adrenalin pumping. It was a beat-up old Lincoln town car and the driver’s door burst open as a young black guy pulled himself out. He was wearing a red waistcoat, white shirt and black slacks, the same uniform worn by the dozens of staff in attendance at Skender’s building. Stratton instantly saw a way through his dilemma.

  As the man slammed his car door and hurried towards Stratton to pass him by, Stratton jumped out in front of him with his hands up as if he was a basketball referee stopping play. ‘Hey, hey, wait up, wait up,’ Stratton said.

  ‘What?’ the man said in surprise, adjusting his forward momentum to move around Stratton. ‘Outta my way, man. I’m late for work.’

  ‘No, wait. Just one minute. One minute,’ Stratton said, shuffling backwards to keep in front of him. ‘I’ll make it worth your while,’ he said in an American twang, not wanting to confuse the issue further by appearing to be a foreigner.

  ‘What’s your problem, man?’ the black man said, slowing a little. ‘I gotta get to work.’

  ‘How much you getting paid for this gig?’ Stratton asked, his accent now the Southern slur that he seemed to feel more comfortable with.

  ‘What?’ the man said, bemused by the question. But the lure of easy money was powerful and even anindirect hint of it could shift a person’s focus.

  ‘You’re part of the catering staff for this opening ceremony behind me, right? How much you getting paid?’ Stratton asked. ‘I’ll pay you what you’re getting just for telling me.’

  The offer, although bizarre, blunted the man’s enthusiasm to get away qu
ite so quickly. He took a longer look at Stratton. ‘Say what?’

  ‘Tell me how much you’re getting paid and I’ll pay you the same, right now, right here.’

  The temptation then gave way to suspicion since the man had been brought up to know that there was easy money and then there was too-easy money. ‘You a crazy motherfucker?’

  ‘I’m not crazy. I’ll prove it. How much are you getting paid?’

  The man looked Stratton up and down, knowing there was only one way to finish this conversation. ‘Hunnerd and fifty bucks.’

  ‘Hundred and fifty?’

  ‘That’s what I said. Let’s see the money, then,’ he said with a contemptuous, doubting smirk.

  Stratton reached into his back pocket, took out a wedge of bills, counted a hundred and fifty and handed them to the man who was frankly stunned. ‘You sure you ain’t crazy?’ he asked.

  ‘Not at all,’ Stratton said. ‘How would you like to earn another five hundred? In fact, make that a thousand.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You heard what I said.’

  ‘What I gotta do, kill some motherfucker?’

  ‘Nope. Nothing illegal. Just a favour.’

  ‘What favour?’

  ‘See that platform? I need you to take it back to the place I hired it from, drop it off, and that’s it.’

  ‘Take that back to the hire company?’ the black man said, glancing at the platform.

  ‘That’s right,’ Stratton said, taking the invoice from his pocket and showing the man. ‘It’s on Venice and Overland.’

  ‘Venice and Overland?’ the man said, inspecting the invoice. ‘That’s a buncha motherfucken’ miles from here.’

  ‘I’ll give you five hundred dollars now, and when you get there they’ll give you my five hundred dollars deposit, which you can keep,’ Stratton said, lying about the deposit. But any incentive he could think of to sweeten the deal could only help.

  The man was almost hooked but a doubt still lingered. ‘I don’t get it. Why you gonna give me a thousand dollars to wheel that motherfucker back to the hire company?’

  ‘Okay, I’m gonna tell you, but it’s confidential. What’s your name?’

  ‘Grant.’

  ‘I’m gonna tell you a secret, Grant, but you gotta promise to keep it to yourself or the deal’s off.’

  Grant remained confused but the offer of more money had a positive effect. ‘Okay.’

  ‘Promise?’

  ‘I promise,’ he said, as if he was talking to his kid brother.

  ‘I’m a photographer for People magazine. You heard of People magazine?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Well, I hired this platform so I could take photos of the celebri-ties going into the gig, but when I got here I found out they won’t let me push it in close enough. So I’m standing here trying to figure out how I’m gonna get in there, and I see you.’

  Grant looked at Stratton, then down at his own clothes. ‘You wanna get in as a waiter,’ he said, figuring it out, a smile growing on his face.

  Stratton smiled back. ‘You’re quick, Grant,’ Stratton said. ‘And I tell you what. By the time you get back here, you can still turn up for work and get paid for that, too. What do you say?’

  ‘A thousand bucks for pushing that thing a couple a miles,’ Grant summarised.

  ‘No. A thousand bucks for the use of your uniform for a couple of hours. Taking that back to the equipment-hire is just doing me a favour.’

  Grant beamed. ‘Mister. You got yourself a motherfucken’ deal. Wait up, though – what am I gonna wear if you got my clothes? I ain’t pushin’ that motherfucken’ thing through this neighbour-hood in my underwear.’

  ‘You’re gonna wear this,’ Stratton said, indicating his overalls.

  ‘That’s cool,’ Grant said and climbed into his car. As he pulled his clothes off, Stratton unbuttoned his overalls, stepped out of them and tossed them into the car. Grant put them on, climbed out and took a closer look at the platform. ‘Motherfucker looks heavy, man.’

  ‘It pushes like a pram. Can I use your car?’

  ‘Say what?’

  ‘I need to get changed.’

  ‘Oh, I get it. Pal, this may look a piece a’ shit but it’s worth more ’n a thousand bucks, to me at least.’

  ‘I don’t want your car. I just want to use it to get changed in and put my gear in. You keep the keys, okay?’

  Grant’s expression suggested it was okay and nodded. ‘Five hunnerd dollars, please,’ he said, holding out his hand.

  Stratton counted out the money, practically all he had left, and dropped it into Grant’s palm. ‘Thanks.’

  Grant beamed. ‘Thank you.’ He pocketed the money, walked over to the platform, got his weight behind it and pushed it away from the kerb. ‘Hey, it do push easy, don’ it,’ he said as he shoved it down the road. It rolled several yards ahead of him and he hurried to catch it up, then pushed it again, enjoying himself.

  Stratton climbed into the car, got out of his clothes and put on the waiter’s outfit, which was a little on the tight side. He climbed back out, went to the pick-up, got all his gear and placed it in the boot of the Lincoln. As quickly as he could, he emptied his backpack, went back to the pick-up, loaded the pack with the dozen charges, and hoisted it onto his shoulders. It was heavy and he stooped a little under its weight. He tightened the straps and headed across the road, through the landscape gardening and into the crowd of waiters and caterers unloading the trucks.

  Stratton put the pack down by the front wheel of one of the trucks and joined a line of staff collecting items from the back. His mind worked overtime trying to figure out each move as it presented itself. Seeing several catering trolleys to one side he went over to them, took one, and got back in line with it.

  A couple of security guards in conversation on the concourse cast an occasional eye over the goings-on around them but seemed more interested in what they had to say to each other. Stratton was soon at the front of the line and as the delivery man reached for a small box Stratton stopped him. ‘Give me that big one there. The chickens.’

  The man saw the trolley, agreed it was a better option and pushed the heavy box along the truck bed to the edge. Stratton slid it off, balanced it neatly on top of the trolley and pushed it away. Then he stopped as if he had forgotten something and steered the trolley around the truck to where his bag was.

  A quick check around showed that he was out of sight of the guards on the concourse and the first-floor balconies. He opened his pack, took out the first charge, opened the box and stuffed it inside one of the cooked chickens. It was too big to fit completely and he turned the chicken so that it sat on the charge, hiding it. Satisfied, Stratton quickly repeated the process until every charge was hidden. He then replaced the lid, dumped his empty pack under the truck, wiped his hands on the side of his pants and pushed the trolley back onto the concourse where he joined the line of staff waiting to be searched at the entrance.

  The line shuffled past the large sculpture of a man with its back to Stratton and facing the front doors fifty feet away. Stratton took a look at it as he passed to discover it was a slightly larger than life-size image of Skender wearing a coat that was open and flowing, his arms outstretched like Moses and facing the building as if trying to invoke it to rise up out of the ground. Stratton felt the metal, deciding that it was bronze or something as dense. It was a symbol of Skender’s immense ego but it was also something else: Stratton had a perfect use for it.

  When it was Stratton’s turn to be searched the lid of the box was raised, the chickens inspected without being touched, the metal detector was moved up and down him and after a frisk he was beckoned inside.

  As Stratton stepped in through the doors five of Skender’s suited thugs were in the lobby. He recognised a couple of them from the McDonald’s car park. He pressed his glasses to his face, low-ered his head and pushed the trolley under the fabulous chandelier and into a massive ballroom. Islands of
tables dotted about the place were gradually being covered in food and drinks of every description.

  Stratton paused to take stock and consider his next move. Then he pushed the trolley to an area where rubbish was being collected, picked up a couple of plastic bin bags and, checking around the busy hall to make sure he was not the focus of anyone’s attention, reached into the box, removed the first charge from a chicken and put it into a bag. Working quickly, he collected the dozen charges into a couple of bin bags, placed the box of chickens on the table, lifted the bags onto the trolley and placed several boxes of garbage on top of them.

  He wheeled the trolley back out into the lobby and stopped beside one of the uniformed security guards at the door. ‘’Scuse me, sir?’ he said in his Southern accent. ‘Is there somewhere I can dump this garbage?’

  The guard looked at him and was about to answer when one of Cano’s thugs came over.

  ‘What’s he want?’ the thug asked. It was one of the goons from the McDonald’s car park but he evidently did not recognise Stratton.

  ‘He wants to dump this garbage,’ the security guard said.

  ‘I’ll take him down,’ the thug said. ‘Come with me.’

  Stratton followed him to the elevators and faced them as they waited for one to arrive. Skender’s men were all around. Then he heard a familiar voice behind him. Cano had just walked into the lobby to give some orders about securing the floors and to explain where guests, when they arrived in a couple of hours, could and could not go. As an elevator arrived and Stratton, followed by his thug, pushed the trolley inside Cano looked over at them.

  ‘Tony? You going up?’ Cano called out, walking towards them.