‘You just had it.’
‘I won’t ask again.’
‘I’m pleased to hear that,’ Skender said and replaced the phone in its cradle. He stared ahead as he considered the call. The threat might require his attention if it was genuine. But since he planned to do nothing it was now the caller’s move, so he would forget about it until that move was made. As he dismissed the conversation from his thoughts his eyes refocused on the naked girl who was lying back on the couch now while the other girl pleasured her with her tongue.
Skender walked over and sat beside them to get a closer look. The naked girl reached out to caress Skender’s leg but he took hold of her hand in mid-air and pushed it away. ‘No – if there’s one thing I cannot tolerate it’s affection.’
Stratton lowered his mobile phone and contemplated the brief conversation. What stuck in his mind most about it was not so much what Skender had said but what he, Stratton, had. He’d threatened to retaliate if Skender refused to comply with his wishes, and Skender had indeed refused. The gauntlet had gone down and so the question was, did Stratton really mean to revenge Sally? Was that what he had wanted to do all along but had refused to acknowledge? The whole thing was absurd in so many ways: he had made a threat without a plan to back it up and the rule was, if a plan didn’t look like it could work perfectly, abandon it. Problem was, Stratton hadn’t even made one. He realised that he really had only one way to go: he had to devise a plan and decide on its feasibility. Basically, if it looked like he could get away with it completely he would go ahead.
Stratton flicked through the file and stopped at the report on Leka where it indicated that the Albanian was incarcerated at the Santa Monica court awaiting arraignment on the twenty-first. Stratton checked the date on his watch to confirm that it was now the eighteenth, which did not give his battered body very long to heal. The report also indicated the law firm representing Leka and detailed their scheduled meetings. A feasible way of gaining entry to the lock-up facility came to Stratton almost immediately. The main problem was how to deal with a target who was inside a jail and probably the other side of bars when there was no way of getting weapons into the building.
As Stratton stared at several coins on the table an idea began to germinate. He reached for the largest coin, a quarter, put down the file, got stiffly to his feet, and went to the table where he sat down carefully in front of the explosives box, all the while gingerly nursing his aching ribcage.
He opened the container, removed the pack of SX – a concentrated RDX compound with almost twice the explosive power of PE4 or C4 – and peeled away a portion that resembled a slice of processed cheese. He removed the plastic wrapping, laid it flat on the table and, using the small graphic knife from the kit, sliced off a length and began to roll it into a ball. It was similar to plasticine: the more he manipulated it in his hands the warmer it got and the easier it was to mould. When it was soft Stratton pressed it against one side of the quarter and shaped it into a small conical pyramid in the centre of the coin. Then he laid it on the table to evaluate it.
The packet of chewing gum that he’d bought from the Korean shop was on the table. He removed one of the strips, slid off the paper and unwrapped the silver foil. He placed the stick of gum on the sheet of remaining SX, traced around the edge with the knife, cut away a strip the exact size of the gum and wrapped it carefully in the silver foil. Then he slid it into the paper sheath and placed it back in the packet.
The plan was workable, Stratton decided, but it needed a test run. The key elements were that he should not be seen or, more importantly, recognised and should leave nothing like fingerprints or DNA behind.
Stratton remembered seeing a Yellow Pages in the entrance cupboard. He got up, found the directory and took it to the couch where he sat back and thumbed through it. Just as he found a shop in Santa Monica that claimed to have the widest range of Hallowe’en and other costumes on the West Side he was suddenly overcome by a need to sleep. The day had caught up with him and he decided to work on the rest of the plan later. The urge to remain on the couch was strong but he wanted to lie flat. He put down the directory, pushed himself up, moved into the bedroom and lowered himself slowly onto the bed, his grazes stinging where the scabs that had already formed cracked with every move. He rested his head on the pillow, pulled the bloodstained towel over him and closed his eyes. Ideally he would have liked to rest for a week and recover fully but he did not have the time. There was a lot to do, most of all where Josh was concerned.
As Stratton closed his eyes the plan took shape in his mind. He realised that he was enjoying this part of the process. Preparing an operation, especially one that he was going to carry out alone, was satisfying. But before he could get properly into it Cano’s face appeared in front of him and Stratton’s eyes jerked open. Realising that the image was not real, he closed his eyes once more, forcing himself to relax so that he could fall asleep.
At that moment Stratton wanted Cano at his mercy more than anything else. He was certain, should his wish be granted, that mercy would be the last thing he’d show the bastard.
14
Stratton stood in front of the court buildings. He was wearing a tan jacket, ironed trousers and polished brown shoes. His hair was dyed blond and had a parting for the first time in probably more than a decade. Heavy spectacles partly covered his bruised eyes, a false hombre moustache more or less concealed the wounds on his lips and a goatee – or as much of one as he had been able to grow in the three days since his beating – completed the disguise. He carried a small laptop case. As he adjusted his colourful tie he headed for the entrance of the Santa Monica District courthouse and the security checkpoint where half a dozen people were waiting to be processed.
Stratton joined the queue and watched as two security guards took their time checking each person thoroughly. After passing through a standard frame detector the contents of each person’s baggage were checked and before entering the building another electronic sensor was run up and down the lengths of their bodies. Stratton passed through the frame without triggering an alarm and his laptop case was opened to reveal some pens and paperwork. He raised his hands, wincing as his cracked ribs complained. The hand-held sensor swept over his body, beeping at his trouser-belt buckle – the noise was ignored – and again alongside his jacket pocket. He produced some small change which satisfied the security guard who allowed him through.
Stratton stepped into the cavernous crowded hall and paused to look around. The courthouse interior was an L-shaped configuration with half a dozen doors staggered either side of the longer wing. The broader, shorter wing housed the entrances to three courtrooms that appeared to be in full swing with spec -tators and legal representatives milling in and out through the large double doors.
A police officer was crossing the lobby and Stratton moved to intercept him. ‘Excuse me, officer,’ he said in a southern accent. He wore a broad, innocent smile.
The officer glanced at him without slowing.
‘Where are the detainees awaiting arraignment kept?’ Stratton asked, moving to keep pace with him.
‘That door at the end,’ the officer said, pointing as he headed down the longer wing.
‘Thank you,’ Stratton said, stopping as the officer disappeared into the crowd. Stratton had rehearsed his American accents all morning while getting ready in his apartment and more loudly as he’d walked to the courthouse, trying to select one that was suitable. He eventually went for the Southern accent simply because, although it sounded almost ridiculous to him and far too exaggerated, he could hang on to it better than any of the others.