‘Try the peaceful way first. Give the law a chance.’
‘Look, I – er – I don’t think I’m going to do anything—’
‘I know,’ Seaton interrupted. ‘I’m just asking that if you do … whatever you do, try the legal route first.’
Stratton shrugged, feeling most uncomfortable talking this way with Seaton now that he had lost confidence in the man.
Seaton held out a baggage stub with the usual computer printout of numbers against the flight details. ‘Something for you. It’s already on the plane – we have a special relationship with the security here. You wouldn’t have gotten it on board on your own.’
Stratton could only wonder what ‘it’ was.
‘There are four numbers written on the back. You’ll know what they mean. When you see it you’ll wonder why the hell I gave it to you – I’m not even sure myself. Maybe I want you to know that I’m on your side. Maybe I just want to impress you. I don’t know. I was there too when Jack died, remember that. It was my op. Maybe I owe him … Christ, will you get the hell outta here before I change my mind.’
Stratton looked into Seaton’s strangely sad eyes a moment before walking away.
Seaton watched until Stratton disappeared down the tunnel. Then the CIA man headed across the hall, looking a little lost.
Five and a half hours later Stratton stood in the baggage hall of LAX, staring at the conveyor belt as suitcases and holdalls dropped out through a hatch to move slowly around the moving oval track. He had no idea what he was looking for and expected to have to wait until all the luggage had been claimed before he could compare the stub to its other half on the last remaining bag. Then a briefcase made of heavy-duty black plastic popped from the hatch and he knew that it was his.
Stratton watched the briefcase slide down the delivery ramp and onto the conveyor belt where it made its way past expectant passengers towards him. No one else reached for it and as it came alongside he picked it up and inspected the tag. The numbers matched. He shouldered his pack casually and headed towards the exit. A security officer checked the tag against his stub and waved him through the double doors which led directly outside and onto the four-lane one-way ring road that connected all the terminals of LAX. Within a few minutes he was in a taxi and heading out of the airport. The traffic was light as he passed through Marina Del Rey to the beach road and north towards Santa Monica.
When Stratton arrived inside his rented apartment he dropped his pack, placed the case on the dining table, went into the kitchen and filled the kettle. He put it on, dropped two Lipton tea bags in a mug and looked back at the case as the water came to the boil. The single clasp that secured the case required a four-digit combination to open it – the numbers written on the baggage stub, no doubt.
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.
11
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.