The Operative (18 page)

The kettle automatically clicked off as the water boiled. He filled the cup, poured in some milk from a carton in the fridge, stirred the liquid for a moment and then sipped it. The tea was hopeless, a combination of cheap leaves and vitamin D milk, he decided.

Stratton walked to the table and placed the mug on it. Then he tilted the case onto its rear edge, rolled the combination numbers to correspond with those on the stub and pressed the release catch. It flicked open and he lowered the case so that it rested flat on the table’s surface again.

He raised the lid to reveal, as he’d suspected, an explosives specialist’s travel pack, similar to the SBS type he had used at Josh’s birthday party. It was filled with a variety of miniature detonators, along with fuses, cortex, tools and plastic explosives. Seaton knew that Stratton would prefer the indirect method: explosives allowed an assassin to distance himself from the target whereas using a gun required a direct line of sight.

Stratton closed the case and took his mug to the window where
he looked out across the city. One thing that niggled at him was his promise to try and resolve the situation by peaceful means first. That might require a level of exposure which, if things did not go well, might make the task of concealing his part in the administration of any other type of justice more difficult.

Stratton’s thoughts drifted to Josh and he suddenly felt uneasy. But after deciding to take things one step at a time and abort if at any stage he felt the risk was too high, he felt a little better. There was nothing to be gained by ending up in a US jail for the rest of his life – or worse – simply to avenge Sally. Jack would not expect that of him. But if the Albanians were otherwise going to get away with Sally’s death and Stratton could make them pay and – of course – get away with it, that would indeed be sweet and just. By close of play the following day he would know.

Josh was kneeling on the floor in a corner of the child-protection centre playroom, reaching expectantly into a plastic shopping bag. Stratton was beside him. Josh pulled out a Game Boy, then a model fighter aircraft. Although he was pleased with the presents there was only a hint of his usual excitement as he unwrapped them.

‘Thanks, Stratton,’ he said softly.

George was watching with envy from across the room. Even though he wanted to move closer to get a better look at the new toys he held himself back.

Stratton reached into the bag, removed a gift, and looked over at the other boy. ‘This is for you, George.’

George’s eyes lit up. He stumbled as he pushed off from a standing start to run the short distance across the room before braking hard on the shiny linoleum floor. He took the package and examined the contents inside the transparent container to find an assortment of small plastic soldiers in various fighting positions. ‘Wow! Targets!’ he exclaimed, pulling open the wrapping as he knelt down and poured them onto the floor.

Josh’s interest was aroused. He shuffled closer to George and placed the fighter aircraft beside the soldiers. ‘This is their air force,’ he explained. The two boys immediately began sorting out the men and discussing how they could best be utilised in a battle that would also include George’s helicopter.

Stratton stood up, smiling. He suddenly sensed that someone
was looking at him. It was Vicky Whitaker, standing in the doorway and wearing a smile of her own.

‘You got a minute?’ she asked quietly, as if not to disturb the boys.

‘I’ll see you later,’ Stratton said to Josh, ruffling his hair.

Josh immediately stopped playing and got to his feet. ‘When?’ he asked, somewhat demandingly.

‘Tomorrow.’

‘Can’t you come back later today?’

‘I don’t know.’

Josh looked down in disappointment.

‘Maybe Miss Whitaker will let me take you out for a meal,’ Stratton said.

George was the first to look at Stratton, his eyes wide with hope.

‘And George too, of course.’

Both boys then looked at Miss Whitaker as if she was their mother.

‘Can we, Vicky – I mean, Miss Whitaker?’ George pleaded.

Her smile disappeared and she folded her arms across her chest, giving the boys a disapproving look.

Stratton shrugged innocently, looking as hopeful as the youngsters.

‘That’s a very big maybe,’ she said. ‘And by that I mean probably not.’

‘Maybe means yes,’ George almost whispered to Josh and Stratton with an air of experience. ‘Vicky’s a real softy.’

‘Don’t you believe it,’ Vicky warned.

Stratton winked at the boys. ‘Let me see what I can do,’ he said quietly to them before walking towards Vicky Whitaker. She gave him a stern look as he walked past her and left the room.

She followed him into the corridor, closing the door behind her. ‘You shouldn’t get their hopes up like that,’ she said in a matronly manner.

‘Hope is just about all those boys have while they’re in here.’

‘
Trust
is the single most important element of the relationship we try and build with these kids. George could be moved to a foster home any day now. Don’t promise them things that you can’t deliver.’

Stratton humbly took another ticking-off. ‘You’re right, as usual. I’m sorry.’

And, as usual, Vicky was completely disarmed by his sincerity. She wondered what it was about this man of whom she knew so little that made her feel she could depend on him. He was without doubt unusual – and also mysterious, it seemed. ‘Josh has quite an imagination,’ she said, heading down the corridor.

‘Don’t all kids?’ Stratton asked, falling in alongside her.

‘He talks about you all the time.’

Stratton thought he could see what was coming. ‘Now that you mention it, though, he does have quite an overactive imagination when it comes to playing soldiers.’

‘He says you’re a secret soldier and a spy for the British Government.’

‘That’s the last top secret I tell him,’ Stratton said, feigning flippancy.

‘On your form, under employer, you put British MoD. What’s that?’

‘Ministry of Defence.’

‘So you
do
work for the government?’

‘Yes.’

‘Are you a soldier?’

‘Yes.’

‘Fifteen years, you put on the form.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Why does he call you a “secret” soldier?’

‘Well, it’s kind of a game we play. Whenever I visited his mum and dad after being away he would ask where I’d been and I’d
tell him some tall story. It became something of a tradition between us.’

‘So you’re not really who he thinks you are.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘I mean in terms of work – you don’t do the job that he thinks you do.’

‘Is that important?’

‘I suppose not.’

‘Is this a trust thing?’ Stratton asked, a touch of cynicism in his voice.

Vicky sighed, annoyed with herself. ‘I’m sorry. I need to lighten up a little. That was a poor attempt to stick my nose into your personal life – it’s nothing personal.’

‘I understand.’

‘I hope you do. We’ve had some apparently very nice people arrive here to take responsibility for children, people who’ve turned out to be not so nice after all.’

‘You don’t need to explain. What do you want to know?’

‘Well … nothing, really,’ Vicky said, unsure where she was going with the questioning. ‘Being military could be useful as far as securing guardianship is concerned. There’ll be no missing years on your records, for instance, and plenty of people to vouch for you.’

Stratton had thought about calling someone in British military intelligence. But he had a feeling that trying to light a fire under the Californian social and welfare services would not be any easier for someone from that organisation if it did not involve oper -ational necessity. He decided to leave that particular avenue alone unless he ran into a serious problem. ‘Will it really take very long?’ he asked.

‘Myers could be more efficient but I can push him only so far before he gets all petulant. Then he’ll dig his heels in and become deliberately obstructive. To be blunt, he’s a jerk.’

‘Say it how you feel,’ Stratton said.

Vicky grinned, then averted her gaze as if embarrassed.

She suddenly looked like a girl and not an officious bureaucrat, albeit one with a warm and generous heart.

‘I shouldn’t talk about him like that. It’s not professional.’

‘Sometimes it’s good to express how you feel.’

‘But not to strangers,’ Vicky said, turning serious again as she remembered something. ‘The one area where Myers has been efficient was in locating a temporary foster home for Josh. That’s because one of his main tasks is moving kids out of here as soon as possible. It’s pretty quiet around here right now but it can turn into a zoo overnight, believe me. Four months ago we had over a hundred children crammed in here and we’re only officially equipped for fifty. They don’t just come from disrupted families. We get a lot of young illegal immigrants and you’d be surprised at the number of kids we have to take back from foster parents.’

‘How do you get to qualify as a foster parent?’

‘Horrifyingly easily, unfortunately. The state pays good money to foster parents but with a lot of them that’s all they’re in it for. There’ve been cases where we’ve inadvertently placed children in worse places than we originally got them from. You wouldn’t qualify so don’t go down that road if you’re thinking about it. For one, you have to be a resident citizen.’

‘How soon could he be relocated?’

‘A week maybe. I won’t know exactly until we’re closer to a date.’

‘Will you know who’ll be fostering him or where he’ll be living?’

‘Yes. But that information is confidential. Look, I’m on your side, John. Or, to be precise, I’m on Josh’s. I can see how much he loves you and how much you care for him. There’s no greater qualification than that in my view. I’ll fight for that any day of the week, but I don’t make the rules.’

Stratton nodded his appreciation. ‘I wish you did,’ he said checking his watch and aiming towards the door. ‘Well, thanks again, Miss Whitaker.’

‘You can call me Vicky if you want. I’m not quite the stuffed shirt I look – okay, I am, but I don’t like to be.’

Her comment brought smiles to both their faces.

‘I don’t see a stuffed shirt,’ Stratton said, looking her in the eye.

At face value the comment seemed open to interpretation. But Stratton’s sincere expression ensured that it conveyed only the most respectful appreciation.

‘See you soon,’ he said, offering his hand. Vicky took it and he held hers for a second before shaking it. It was small and soft, and the touch felt good, immedi ately demonstrating to Stratton his need for female company. But he quickly pushed all thought of that aside, this being neither the time nor the place for a romance.

Vicky watched him walk away until he was through the door. Then, as she turned to head for her office, she caught Dorothy looking at her from behind her reception desk and wearing a broad, suggestive smile. Vicky immediately adopted an air of prim decorum, marched to her office, and let its door close behind her.

Stratton passed through the electronic security check at the entrance of the Santa Monica Court Admin istration building that was in the same block as the police department. After being thoroughly checked by a security officer he headed into the lobby and consulted a room directory on the wall. The place was bustling, thanks to a broad spectrum of Santa Monica life milling in and out: police, lawyers, plaintiffs, defendants, the underprivileged and the well-heeled.

The district attorney’s office was on the second floor. Stratton walked to the stairs halfway along the corridor from the front door and paused on the first step, wondering what he actually expected to achieve with this visit. His intentions were to speak to the DA personally and lobby to have the two thugs responsible for Sally’s death investigated. Though he did not know the procedures for making such a request he could guess at some of the problems he would encounter. The DA would inevitably ask him to reveal how he came to know the identities of the two men and for obvious reasons he could not tell them the source. Nor could he involve the Korean shopkeeper since that would place a death sentence on the man’s head.

Ideally, Stratton needed a prosecutor who’d be interested in an FBI cover-up. But that was too much to hope for and would be impossibly complicated, requiring all kinds of proof that he could not offer. But he had at least to try. Between one step and the next another problem popped into his head: his own exposure. If, for argument’s sake, he did decide to take action against the
thugs himself, showing his face in the public prosecutor’s office would not be the wisest thing to do.

Stratton stayed where he was for a moment to think his strategy through once again. Then a commotion at the building entrance took him out of his thoughts. He looked up to see half a dozen uniformed policemen, several openly carrying Heckler & Koch MP5K sub-machine guns held across their chests, and a couple of plain-clothes officers march in. They were escorting a middle-aged Latino man with intense features and wild black hair whose hands were cuffed behind his back.