The Operative (14 page)

Stratton took out his address book, flicked through the pages, found the number and tapped it into his phone. As soon as it started to ring he turned it off, realising the lack of wisdom in using his own mobile to make this particular call.

He saw a payphone on the other side of the street and darted through a gap in the traffic. He dug into his pocket to pull out the small pile of coins he had amassed, picked up the receiver, put all the silver into the slot and dialled the number.

A moment later the phone at the other end was answered by a voice he recognised.

‘Seaton?’ Stratton asked.

‘Who is this?’

‘Stratton.’

Seaton was in the living room of his comfortable suburban home, an open file on his lap. He was seated on a leather recliner. The room, like the rest of the house, was carefully furnished with reproduction veneer items and was glowing with middle-class ostentation. Unmistakably the creation of a self-obsessed wife it was full of framed family photographs, mainly of two smiling boys, the older of whom was in his very early teens. There were also plaques from various military intelligence outfits and special forces, not all of them American. One was from the SBS and it hung beside another from Navy SEAL Team 6.

‘Stratton? Hey, good to hear from you. How you doing?’

‘Fine. Where are you right now?’ Stratton asked – he’d called Seaton’s mobile phone.

‘I’m at home,’ Seaton said, having redirected his mobile to his home number.

‘Can you talk?’

‘Sure. Hey, I’m glad you called,’ Seaton said, sitting up and putting down his file. ‘I’m sorry I never made Jack’s funeral. I was ordered straight home after the op to do some follow-up. I tried to call Sally a couple days ago but I couldn’t get hold of her.’

Stratton paused to consider the best way of breaking the bad news that would also prompt a favourable reaction to a request for help. ‘I understand. Your card was much appreciated,’ he lied.

‘I still should’ve been there, but, well, I suppose I don’t need to explain to you … So, what can I do for you?’ Seaton asked.

‘I need a favour.’

‘Shoot,’ Seaton said, getting to his feet. He went over to his desk where a read-out on a small digital screen displayed the number of the phone Stratton was calling from and beneath it the location: Venice Beach, California.

‘I’m in California.’

‘California?’ Seaton said, feigning surprise. ‘Getting some sun and a taste of those famous babes, I hope.’

Stratton decided to get to the point. ‘Sally was killed a couple of days ago,’ he said.

‘What?’ Seaton said, dumbfounded. ‘Jack’s Sally?’

‘That’s why I’m calling.’

‘I can’t believe what I’m hearing … How’d she die, for God’s sake?’

‘She was murdered.’

‘
Murdered
? Where?’

‘Here – in Los Angeles.’

Seaton pushed his hands through his short, mousy hair as he walked to his patio windows. The view beyond the wooden fence surrounding his groomed garden was of a dense collection of tall, deciduous trees belonging to Dranesville District Park, a small,
pretty patch of green that hugged the south bank of the Potomac river in Maryland. ‘I can’t believe it,’ Seaton said. ‘What was she doing in LA?’

‘Getting away. Josh was with her. He’s okay. I’m working on how I can get him back to the UK.’

‘What do you need me to do?’ Seaton asked, sounding genu -inely concerned.

Stratton was still reluctant to ask directly, mainly because he didn’t know Seaton that well. It wasn’t a small thing and Stratton had not made up his mind whether Seaton was a team player, one of the guys, or a career man – no one got far up the promotional ladder by being one of the guys. Career-minded people didn’t stick their necks out without some self-interested reason.

‘How’d it happen?’ Seaton asked.

‘I don’t know exactly. She rented a car at the airport and somehow ended up in the backstreets of Venice. I’m guessing that she was looking for a hotel for the night. The police say she was attacked by a gang but they don’t know who. Thing is, the FBI does.’

‘I don’t understand. Why’s the FBI involved?’

‘Beats me. When I got no joy from the cops I went down to the crime scene and found out that the Feds have got hold of a name.’

‘I hear what you’re saying,’ Seaton said. ‘You want me to see if I can help you get custody of Josh?’

‘No,’ Stratton said, slightly irritated that Seaton appeared to have missed the point. ‘I want to know that whoever did this to Sally is going to pay.’

‘Why wouldn’t they?’ Seaton asked, not getting Stratton’s drift.

‘I want to know why the Feds have taken over the case and are withholding the name of the killer from the cops. It bothers me.’

Seaton considered the request for a moment. Stratton could
almost hear him thinking on the end of the line. He kept quiet in the hope that Seaton was heading in the right direction.

‘I might be able to find out something. I’m heading into the office in an hour. I’ll see what I can do.’

A computer voice broke into the conversation: ‘You have thirty seconds remaining for this call.’

‘You still there, Stratton?’

‘I don’t have any more change,’ Stratton said. ‘I’ll call you later.’

‘Hey – why don’t you come over?’ Seaton suggested. ‘Stay a couple days. You know some of the guys here. Where you staying?’

‘Santa Monica.’

‘Getting Josh outta there isn’t gonna be an overnight job. You can hop on a plane. Only take a few hours. We can talk about it when you get here.’

Stratton’s immediate thought was to stay close to Josh. But he knew that he had a better chance of getting help from Seaton if he spent some time with him. ‘Sounds like a good idea,’ he said.

‘Great. It’ll be good to see you. We’ll work this out. Let me know your flight soon as you can and I’ll pick you up.’

‘Will do,’ Stratton said as the phone automatically disconnected.

Seaton lowered the phone and pondered the situ ation. He had been a CIA agent for a couple of years longer than Stratton had been in special forces and his natural cunning and wit had been honed by those years in the business. He didn’t know Stratton very well but he had spent enough time with the SBS to know that the man was one of their top go-to operatives and had also made the Secret Intelligence Services’ full-time roster, which was unusual for anyone still in SF. Seaton reasoned that it was perfectly natural for someone to want to know who had killed a close friend of theirs. But when that someone was a man like Stratton the picture had the potential to get darker. Seaton was aware that he was probably being overly suspicious, a natural
enough response in his line of work, but there was still always a need to be cautious. For instance, he did not ignore the fact that Stratton had called from a payphone.

Seaton decided that he would help Stratton but only in a way that would keep his own profile way out of any snooping spotlight.

Stratton carried on down Main Street towards his hotel, wondering if Seaton would change his mind once he had thought it through – not that Stratton reckoned he had asked for anything too unreasonable. Snooping around the FBI was only wrong because the FBI wouldn’t like it, but there had to be some perks to the business of clandestine ops and that was what the old-boy network was for. Stratton dearly wanted to know who was responsible for Sally’s death, but more importantly he wanted to ensure that they were going to pay for it, preferably with their lives. But if there was no other option he would accept indefinite incarceration for the killers.

The top floors of the pink towers came into sight. Stratton checked his watch as he picked up his speed, estimating that he could get his bag, catch a taxi, and be at the airport in about an hour – ample time, he hoped, to catch a domestic flight to Washington DC.

Stratton made it to LAX in time to catch the 1:55 p.m. US Airways flight that arrived at Ronald Reagan National Airport at twenty minutes to midnight local time. As he stepped through the gate Seaton was waiting at the far side of the arrivals hall watching him, a welcoming smile appearing on his face as they made eye contact.

‘Good flight?’ Seaton asked as Stratton approached.

‘Quiet,’ Stratton replied. They shook hands.

As the plane touched down both men had begun to feel uncomfortable about meeting each other, and not just because of Sally’s and Jack’s recent deaths. Seaton and Stratton were very different animals. Although they were compatible in their work they were not well matched socially. Seaton was essentially a suit, although he had the option to join his men in the field on occasion, as he had during the Iraq operation. Whether or not he did depended on the risk rating, which needed to be fairly low. He was a planner and information collator by trade, having entered the organisation with an MBA in Middle East studies, and he had risen through the ranks, gaining enough experi ence over the years to become a consultant on East European and Middle Eastern anti-terror affairs. He was a little bigger than Stratton, as fit as him and probably stronger physically, but front-line operators always left him with an unmistakable feeling of inadequacy that he hated but was unable to rationalise away. A self-analysis had revealed a latent desire to be one of them, which was not exactly astounding.
But the truth was that had he been granted a genie’s wish he would not have chosen that calling. He honestly felt that he was in the far better job but he still could not explain why he continued to feel that twinge of envy.

‘It’s good to see you again,’ Seaton said, leading Stratton through the hall that was practically empty compared with its usual daytime bustle. The majority of the people around were night-shift cleaners. ‘You got any other baggage?’

‘No,’ Stratton said, shouldering his pack.

‘Julie, my wife, has made some food. She won’t be up by the time we get home, though. You’ll see her and the kids in the morning.’

‘I never thought of you as married,’ Stratton said.

‘Thirteen years.’ Seaton sounded neither regretful nor proud.

‘Long time.’

‘Yep.’

They headed out of the terminal to the short-term car park where Seaton’s car was waiting practically alone in the concrete-pillared cavern. A few minutes later they were driving along the George Washington Memorial Parkway that followed the south bank of the Potomac as it curved north-west.

Stratton decided not to mention his request for help in making contact with the FBI. He’d leave it to Seaton to broach the subject. There was no point in pushing him. He would either play ball or not, depending on his own concerns – which he’d had ample time to contemplate.

The airport was a good ten minutes behind them when, neither men having said a word since leaving the terminal, Stratton felt Seaton glance at him.

‘Well, it sure is a small world,’ Seaton said. ‘How true is that in our business?’

Stratton could only wonder what he was referring to.

‘Never ceases to amaze me how everything is connected to
everything else if you examine it long enough,’ Seaton went on. ‘Ever hear the name Skender before – Daut Skender?’

‘That a person?’ Stratton asked dryly, assuming that it was.

‘A man. That job you did in Kazakhstan – if you’d been involved at ops level you’d have heard his name.’

Stratton glanced at Seaton, wondering why he had mentioned that assignment.

‘Lit my eyes up when I saw his name on the FBI report,’ Seaton continued. ‘He’s Albanian Mafia, hence the connection to your Almaty adventure – they were the crew ferrying the heroin through the mountains. Skender is a very big fish in a very big pond of organised crime. The Albanians don’t get as much airtime as the Russian and Italian Mafias mainly because of their political position but also because no one knows who most of the bosses are. Skender is the head of one of fifteen clans that have ruled Albania for centuries. They got big, and they stay big, by working with everyone: Italian N’dranheta, Comorra, Stidda and the Russian Solsentskya mob. When the FBI finally broke up the pizza connection all the Eastern European mobs moved in to fill the void, in America as well as Italy. But it was easier for the Albanians to take over because of their traditional ties with the Sicilian Mafia. They’re into every kind of smuggling you can imagine, including heroin and arms. Skender was big in the early 1990s but his stock went through the roof after the Kosovo conflict thanks to the US and UK governments. Before the war we got the IMF to impose economic sanctions that caused Albania’s economy to collapse, putting us in a prime position to ‘save’ them. Skender was one of the organisers of the Kosovo Liberation Army against Milosevic. We trained and equipped the KLA and then handed them the bulk of the rebuilding contracts after our bombers levelled the place. Skender used those projects to launder millions of his illegal dollars and in a few short months he became a legitimate billionaire. By the end of the decade
he was, or at least we suspect he was, running Europe’s most powerful heroin cartel. You’re probably wondering what the hell this has got to do with Sally.’

Stratton didn’t want to interrupt, expecting Seaton to get to the point eventually. All he had been briefed about the Almaty job was that the trade route was used by Islamic terrorist organisations moving components of WMDs, weapons of mass destruction, into the West. Interestingly, the boxes found on Mohammad Al-Forouf’s train in Iraq had been identical in appearance to those that Stratton had photographed in Almaty and had had traces of heroin as well as explosives in them. But there’d been no sign of WMDs.