Stratton climbed inside the vehicle, started the engine which was still warm and drove forward through the wood all the while holding the door shut since the latch was now broken. He passed out the other side of the wood and across the stretch of rugged open ground towards the road. He kept the speed down while avoiding any large dips or bumps, conscious of the sensitivity of his cargo. Then he mounted the road and sped along it towards Twin Oaks.
As he approached the bar he could see that the lights were on and a dozen or so vehicles were parked in a haphazard manner on the open ground outside.
He slowed as he turned off the road, pulled in tightly alongside a white pick-up slightly smaller than his and stopped. He looked in through the passenger window, saw the key in the ignition and killed his engine. He shuffled across the seat, climbed out of his passenger door, grabbing his gear, and climbed up onto the truck’s bed. The white pick-up was empty and as quickly as he could he transferred his load onto it.
A few minutes later Stratton was back on the road in the white pick-up and tearing along as fast as was safe. Caliente was the last bottleneck he had to pass through and from there he had half a dozen choices of roads to the highway and after that a hundred different routes to LA.
As he reached the end of the town he saw a white car parked on the side of the road up ahead and slowed. As he suspected, it was a police patrol car and the state trooper seated behind the steering wheel looked at Stratton as he drove past.
Stratton watched the patrol car in his rear-view mirror, waiting to see if its lights came on. Then it was out of sight.
Stratton knew better than to celebrate prematurely but he had the feeling that for the moment he had slipped the net. But now he knew for sure that the net was indeed there – and closing. He had been lucky so far, there was no doubt about it, and if he was to continue the pursuit of his objective the chances were high that he would fail.
Seaton and Hobart, on the ground beside each other, shuffled away from the heat of the flames from the burning vehicles. Hendrickson’s coat was on fire and he rolled over and over, yelling ‘Holy shit! Holy shit!’ until the flames were out.
None of the HRT crew was seriously hurt, though one had broken an ankle. Another, who had been standing on the cord when it detonated, miraculously only lost the heel of his boot.
Hobart got to his feet as his mind came back into focus. Frustration and anger began to rise in him as he realised that they had walked right into a trap. ‘Hendrickson?’ he shouted. ‘Hendrickson!’ he repeated in irritation, looking for his assistant who was beating his smoking clothing and apparently ignoring him.
‘Hendrickson!’ he shouted again, moving towards him.
Hendrickson looked up, squinting at his boss.
‘Call the goddamned cops and tell them to put out their road-blocks! And where’s that damned helicopter?’
Hendrickson shook his head and rotated a finger alongside his ear. ‘I can’t hear a thing,’ he shouted. ‘Just ringing.’
It was only when Hobart saw Hendrickson’s lips moving and could hear hardly anything he was saying that he realised his ears were ringing, too.
31
Stratton spent the rest of the night in a motel on the outskirts of Los Angeles and early the next morning, after grabbing a bite at a local diner, he made his way into the bustling city. Morning traffic was heavy but by nine a.m. he was parked outside a construction-equipment hire company in Mar Vista, waiting for it to open. He was the first customer to enter the reception office after the man running the desk had drawn up the blinds and turned on the computer. Ten minutes later, on completion of the paperwork, Stratton was directed to an assistant across the yard who explained how to operate the mobile work platform – or cherry-picker, as it was affectionately known – that he had hired for the day. Stratton was happy to leave a credit-card imprint for the final bill because it would not show up on any police trace for at least twenty-four hours, by which time it would all be over. One way or another.
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.